


Starlight [Attack on Titan Fanfiction: Levi x OC]

by moonlitcroissant



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14838165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitcroissant/pseuds/moonlitcroissant
Summary: Maika Kuhn, after being recruited into the Survey Corps by Commander Erwin Smith, uses the journal entries that her deceased mother had once written her in order to find her purpose in living and how to extend that purpose to those around her.[This fanfiction tends to have longer chapters and slower buildups, as I like to be very detailed with my work and focus a lot on my OC at an interpersonal level rather than only on her relationship with the beloved Captain Levi. I'd recommend reading this story if you enjoy those kinds of writing styles/techniques. ^-^]*All due credit goes to the creator of Shingeki No Kyojin, Hajime Isayama.*





	1. A Letter To My Daughter

_Observe your surroundings through a lens that was designed with the notion of beauty. Only then, when you have accomplished this, will I allow you to try and convince me that there is not a single good thing about this world._  
  
_It is necessary to allude to the fact that we, as humans, have a careless tendency to get lost within the complexity of our own thoughts. Life is an anachronism of influences, so we oftentimes witness the fine line that sits sharply between our emotions and the overall purpose of our existence becoming dimmer until it is completely obscured by the haze of our unrelenting minds. We are deterred from our path because we fail to see the bigger picture._  
  
_To fulfill our aspirations, we must first ascertain beauty in the littlest of things. I find that this will ultimately give way to our desired outcome. These miniscule details are what will provide the basic framework for our long-awaited goals and ambitions._  
  
_The social hierarchy our nation thrives upon has a strong propensity in prioritizing those with an ample amount of money and self-indulgent habits. Do not let this dissuade you. Rather, pour your attention elsewhere. Regale yourself with the pitter-patter of the rain, the delicate droplets that descend towards the pavement in an arbitrary yet constant rhythm. Study the birds that flap their wings in a casual uniformity that aligns with the breathing of the wind. Delve into the depths of an elaborate book that contains a copious collection of captivating metaphors and allusions._  
  
_And for those of us who reside in the underground city, a drab location where the sun is incapable of lathering its benevolent rays onto those who amble inside of it..._  
  
_We must do the same._  
  
_Maybe we cannot experience the rain, the birds, or the words etched onto slightly yellowed sheets of paper binded by a leather spine, but that gives us all the more reason to persevere. There is an unidentifiable beauty in the quietude that wraps around the notorious underground city. It allows one to focus on the soft crying of a newborn child, the incessant tapping of lightweight footsteps sauntering across a grainy terrain, the faint humming of a ventilator as it struggles to release heat for the coming winter months. Everything that we encounter is an irrefutable reminder of our existence. We are alive, and that is all that matters._  
  
_I am not ignorant to the malice this world presents us with. I am well aware of the Titans that hastily consume our soldiers, our citizens, and our families. They have no logical reasoning in doing so; nothing advantageous is received on their end for executing such a deplorable task. I am also aware of the men who practically have the words 'superior' and 'half-witted moron' plastered on their permanently wrinkled foreheads. Abundant currency is the determining factor of position and status in this society, so those who are born into a life of extravagant goods and services always come out on top. I am aware that the underground is no place for the weak of heart and that most do not make it past their mid-twenties. It is easy to presume that all hope is lost for us humans._  
  
_But I can assure you that it is not._  
  
_If we go the entirety of our lifespan believing that we are unfit to take on the role of restoring the broken parts of this world, then it only makes sense to see us attain absolutely nothing. The air we breathe runs thick with a suffocating dust that infiltrates our dry and raspy throats, but this is also accompanied by a myriad of hopeless spirits. Other people's pessimistic judgements will without a doubt latch onto our own and manipulate our intricate processes. It will occur in a way similar to that of a parasite dominating the cognitive abilities of its once nourished prey. At this point, it will be up to you to decide: out of the two kinds of people who inhabit this world, which one will you choose to be?_  
  
_Will you choose to be the one who immediately steps forward and allows their voice to be heard, seizing the reins of sovereignty and fulfilling their obligations without a second thought, brushing away any signs of ambivalence that attempt to divert their attention away from the mission at hand?_  
  
_Or will you choose to be the one who remains hidden within the dusky layers of a somber shadow, seemingly fearful of the iridescent? Rather than reins of sovereignty being gripped, the coarse knots of rope will instead glide smoothly across your open hands, the roughness of the material leaving streaks of pale red along your inner palms as a stinging reminder of a missed opportunity, an opportunity you could have quite easily taken a hold of._  
  
_So again, make your decision._  
  
_You will either choose to be the person who fights for the positive changes this world needs, or you will choose to be the person who scrutinizes as it crumbles beneath our grasp._  
  
_In order to create the changes we want, we sometimes have to be willing to change ourselves first. This statement may sound a bit unsettling; it may appear to contradict all of the times you have been told to never change who you are for anybody. But I do not want you to change who you are._  
  
_I want you to change the way you view the world._  
  
_Holding grudges against those who have inherent privileges is never going to resolve any of the dilemmas we currently face. I understand that the concept of privilege is extremely prevalent, especially in this current day and age, and I understand how aggravating it may be to watch others reach the moon while you still remain on the sodden ground. I understand it all too well. Despite this, you must continue in your journey to reach for the moon._  
  
_Imagine it like this: there are two people. Person A and Person B. These individuals share a common goal. It does not matter what the goal is at this point; just know that it is the same for both people. What is not the same, though, are the circumstances in which they were raised. Person A was fortunate enough to be granted with the necessities most conventional in attaining superlative success. Person B, on the other hand, was permitted nothing, so it is plain to see that Person A has the advantage here. It only makes sense to see them gain success at a quicker pace than Person B. While Person A is already at the brink of triumph, Person B is still frantically attempting to gather all of the proper essentials to assemble their own affluences._  
  
_Ah, but do not worry. It is okay to be Person B. Nobody ever said that Person B could not acquire success as well. It may take longer, and it may be a more strenuous path, but it is possible nonetheless. You just have to remember to never lose sight of the bigger picture. Some believe that it is not where we begin that matters, but rather, it is where we end that is most important. This statement contains a great truth._  
  
_Many times, we hear what is deemed to be an 'inspiring quote' or an 'admirable piece of advice'. But more often than not, we cannot help but let those words swim through one ear and out of the other. Yes, they are meant to give off the best intentions, but we have heard these trite phrases one too many times; it has gotten to the point where they are only a string of meaningless letters fabricated together in order to fill in the silence of the situation._  
  
_"Never give up."_  
  
_"Love yourself."_  
  
_"Stay strong."_  
  
_We know these statements to be true. That much is blatantly obvious. It is not like we are unaware of these things to begin with. I mean, come on._  
  
_Nobody wants to give up._  
  
_Nobody wants to not love his or her self._  
  
_Nobody wants to be weak._  
  
_What we really want to know is how._  
  
_How do we not give up?_  
  
_How do we love ourselves?_  
  
_How do we stay strong?_  
  
_That is the biggest challenge of all._  
  
_This is not something that we are taught growing up. Children learn of the role they must partake in as a part of this patriarchal society and what they must do in order to sustain that role, but never once has the mental welfare of our people been a part of the curriculum. This is not to mention that each and every one of us will most likely have a solution that is completely unique compared to that of the next individual, so it is quite troublesome to establish one specific way in teaching everybody. The system is flawed but at the same time, it is difficult to explore the depths of one's aching heart without having been through the same ordeal yourself._  
  
_Unfortunately, I myself do not have the exact answers to these incisive questions. As much as I would like to inform you of the best ways to retain happiness, I am afraid that this is just another thing that I am unable to provide. You would think that after all of this attempted wisdom I just spewed, I would have the answer to at least one thing. I am sorry for that._  
  
_But if there is something that I do know, it is that we must locate beauty wherever we set foot upon. There will always be a lavish patch of light stitched somewhere within a blanket of darkness. Always. There is no such thing as darkness without light. You just have to search for it._  
  
_Now although I may not have answers, I do have faith. The amount of faith you possess may waver from mine, or you may have an entirely contrasting faith altogether. That is irrelevant. But as long as we believe in somebody or something, whether it be a higher power, a materialistic item, or even yourself, I believe that we can accomplish both anything and everything. I know I previously stated that where we end up is most important, and while that is still true, we must never forget where we came from, for that is what will meld us into the driven individuals we will soon become._  
  
_My time may be limited here, but I write this in the hopes that you will soon discover this measly journal I have left you with. There is a generous number of entries scrawled within, so if you are able to bring yourself to the end of this one, then I highly recommend taking a quick glance at some of the others. But take your time. Nobody is asking you to absorb yourself within it all at once; that would be asking too much. I tend to ramble and unleash the truest forms of my thoughts, so I give my deepest apologies if some of these writings are a bit long for your liking. Do not worry, though. If you are to never read this, I will never live to know. It appears that Death is making his visit at last and since I have made him wait long enough, it would be rude of me to keep him waiting any longer._  
  
_Perhaps you are wondering how I am holding up right now, how I must feel in my last moments before Death nimbly whisks away my soul._  
  
_To put it simply: there is a boisterous yet tranquil ambience that indulges in my surroundings. I would like to say that I am not fearful right now...but maybe I am. My brain and my heart are on two opposing sides of a polychromatic spectrum; they have traveled down two incompatible trails. You see, my brain is calm. It emits a sense of acceptance and is thoroughly prepared for its demise. But my heart feels otherwise. It violently hammers inside of my feeble chest, oblivious to its arrived expiration date. It cannot fathom the fact that all of my memories, not to mention the microscopic neurons that dance along my various axons and gracefully leap from one synapse to the next, will be shut down and locked away into an eternal limbo that they will never be able to escape from. I cannot blame my heart for feeling this way. After all, it is immensely dispiriting to watch somebody's creative intellect and involuted thought processes go to such waste. My ideas, they will only dissipate, without ever being implemented as something phenomenal. The line will cut short here, transfixed. I truly endure sorrow for my timid heart._  
  
_I believe that we all have a specific wedge in our heart designated to holding a palpable kind of fear, one that is dedicated to the unknown, the unpredictable. It is a bustling cluster of clashing emotions and defeatist assumptions, impeding our sights, minds, and hearts. A deadly concoction of apprehension and anxiety, every nerve ending in our body is laced with anticipation. The whirl of fear swarms around us and hurriedly closes in the distance between us, cradling us into an aggressive chokehold. The bundles of fog turn into hands and refuse to let go. We are paralyzed._  
  
_It is slightly demoralizing to realize that most of our fears stem from the mind itself and not from what physically lies in front of us._  
  
_Once it sinks in that I am finally gone, you must understand that the world will continue to spin at the listless pace it always has. Frost-covered grass will still languidly turn into snow-laden fields as an indication of a new season approaching. A scarlet sun will still gleam against the horizon of a sky banded with prominent hues of orange and pink as it makes its descent in a perfect trajectory along the earth. The wind will still whisper soothing lullabies into the stiff night air as it moves the trees and flowers with its delicate voice, liquid like honey. Despite me no longer being here, everything will continue to move forward. The streets will remain unrestrained with the loud cries of adolescence reverberating off of every brick wall. People will steadily laugh and create unforgettable memories with their loved ones. Happiness will pursue._  
  
_Life will move forward, but perhaps your mind will not. It may be perforated with a solemn silence, possibly even rage, albeit temporary. 'Why?' You might ask. 'Why are these people not grieving like I am? How do they have the audacity to smile and be happy at a time like this? Did somebody not just die?' I know you too well. I am certain that these are the questions running through your troubled head at this very moment. Well, you see, my precious child, if you take the time to view things from a logical perspective, you will then become aware. Remember what I said about the fine line that sits sharply between our emotions and the overall purpose of our existence. Do not let it become dim._  
  
_These people did not know me. They do not know me. They never will know me. So of course they are not saddened by this tragic turn of events. Death befalls us when we least expect it to. It is an occurrence in everybody's life, and it just so happens that today is the day it comes by us. Yesterday was somebody else's day, and tomorrow will yet again be somebody else's day as well. Yesterday, somebody grieved. Tomorrow, somebody will grieve. But today, it is your turn. I would like to apologize beforehand since there are not many people that you can share your grievances with._  
  
_Every individual has their own set of grievances. Some sets are favorably small while others are larger and more heart-rendering. We cannot judge either set so quickly. For those who have not had much to grieve over, it should not be a surprise to see them become upset over something that you consider minorly upsetting. The same way that for those who have had a great deal to grieve over, it should not be a surprise to see them not even flinch at the idea of something you consider majorly upsetting. Neither person is overly sensitive or heartlessly incompetent. It all comes back down to the circumstances in which they were raised, along with the experiences they have grown up with. We should learn to treat emotions like we do skills. If somebody has a talent for creating art at the age of thirteen while somebody else has more mediocre abilities even though they may be older, it is most probable that the thirteen year old has had more practice over the years. If a thirteen year old is not unnerved by death compared to someone who is much older, is it not because they have most likely had more experience with death in the first place? Personally, I find it to be common sense._  
  
_In this city, we are accustomed to making choices swiftly and without haste. It is more of an 'act before you think' kind of deal, otherwise you might be lying dead in a soot-stained alleyway if you take the time to think first. But when you do get a free moment, take the time to sit down and reflect. Every action you make, every step you take, there is a reason behind it. Make sure you know that reason and can stand behind it and accept it for what it is._  
  
_As humans, we make mistakes. Bounteous mistakes. We never really know where our choices are going to lead us. I sometimes have the impression that everything happens for a reason while other times, I am more inclined to the impression of 'you get what you give'. Especially in a world as corrupt as this one, infested with man-eating Titans and where every moment is filled with volumes of unpredictability, there is much room for mistakes to be made. But a mistake made does not necessarily mean that one is at fault. Alas, my own mistakes have landed me in an unpleasant location, left to rot away with my dignity. If I could go back in time, I would. Regret is a terrible feeling._  
  
_So please._  
  
_My dear Maika._  
  
_I have but one wish for you._  
  
_The world has had its beginning, but it has yet to meet its end. Too much has gone into the making of the molecular structure of atoms and particles for you to let it all deteriorate. As far as we know, time is infinite, therefore, our efforts in mending the broken parts of the world we currently live in are infinite as well. And to mend, you must find freedom._  
  
_I wish for you to find freedom._  
  
_That is ultimately the biggest picture._  
  
_I will not tell you to never give up, to love yourself, or to stay strong. I am sure that you are already aware of that. But what I will tell you is that I have faith in you to accomplish those things. I have faith that you will find your reason for living and that you will find what will help you become the best possible version of yourself that you could possibly be. Just remember: whatever that may be, never forget that all in all, you are loved, and you can conquer anything that you want, no matter where you come from and no matter how high you are reaching._  
  
_Good luck._  
  
_I will be waiting for you when your time has finally come._  
  
_And I hope that you can find it in yourself to forgive me for not being able to provide you with enough love and care that a child should properly receive from their mother. I promise to do better in our following lifetimes._  
  
_Until we meet again._  
  
_Mother._


	2. Unforeseen Prosperities

He is a thrumming metronome, steady and unwavering, that pulsates in sync with every beat our heart makes, an irrefutable reminder that our demise is indeed inevitable, and that we are all destined to encounter his long-awaited presence at some moment in our measly lifetime, or more so, the end of it. He slows down for nobody as he only persists in his irksome ticking, a deliberate but rapid countdown to our very last breath.

He is a cloaked figure, infamously notorious for his grand title as a reaper. He delves in guilty pleasures by giving those who do not deserve to die insufficient life, and those who deserve the contrary a life jam-packed with valuable coins and needless superiority. And though his face may be obscured by a thick, satin hood, there is no denying the impish curves that will form on the corners of his slim lips when he snatches yet another individual away from the intricately carved tree that represents life. Like fresh cherries dangling from the thin, skeletal branches of a thriving red maple, we are just waiting to be plucked away and deprived of the nourishing qualities that are needed to survive. He is a sadist, if you will.

He is one end of an intertwined segment of thread, one that life occupies the other side of. I would like to think that we are able to utilize that string however we would like, but he has a knack for proving otherwise. Time and time again, he manipulates us, exercising us to his full advantage. We are merely the strings attached to a degenerate puppet, void of our own just freedoms. We, the people, are his most cherished vessels.

He is the man that lures us into believing oblivion is surpassable to the gift of life.

He is Death.

* * *

 

It is lackluster and reclusive. Colorless. Lopsided wooden boxes are scattered in a disorderly fashion along splintered roads and against the sides of abandoned buildings that were once used for business inquiries, now most likely used for the manifestation of drug complexes. Bullet shells are permanently fixed in an exhausted dirt, rust accumulated on the entirety of their outer covers. Poisonous fumes that are detrimental to one's health permeate the thick air, imperative mutations just waiting to emerge on its inhabitants spontaneously. The underground city may be packed with people, but lifeless is still the most suitable adjective to describe its despondent environment.

"Anita," I yell while frantically attempting to keep pace with my sister's swift and agile steps across town.

"Hm?" She stops mid-stride to turn back and face me, but it seems that gravity is not able to provide me with enough time to halt my movements, so I end up running face first into her neck. A sudden flare of pain surges up my nose, and I end up scrunching it to fend off the pain that accompanied my reckless actions.

"Wait up," I mumble faintly in response after rubbing the bridge of my nose a few times. But now that we are in a consistent alignment again, I walk without the worry of losing sight of her on my shoulders. We carry forward.

The full view of the city is something I never paid much mind to, but I cannot help but become distracted when my eyes detect a limp butterfly fluttering its wings with cumbersome effort somewhere off to my right. I assume it to be a vibrant emperor blue, but I cannot confirm this due to the fact that its delicate wings are doused with a considerable amount of residue.

I pause momentarily and lift a finger to the insect's clingy form; hope is replenished as it seems to regain its lost exuberance. Flapping its wings with an increased motivation, it settles upon my skin and lingers for a few instants before descending to the ground below. I await its return, but it never occurs. It has amalgamated with the dirt, and I am left empty-handed. Looking at its fallen state, I can only ponder. Why is it that the moment we are granted with the slightest of hope, it is all lost soon thereafter?

Anita calls out to me.

"Huh?" I catch up to her yet again.

With an undertone of frustration, my sister reiterates, "I said that the reason why you keep falling behind is because you're too distracted. If you focused more on what was in front of you, you wouldn't be so lost all the time." She then kneels down to retie her tattered boot laces; they must have recently become undone at some point on our daily run of errands.

"You really need to get yourself a new pair of shoes, Anita. The soles of those are practically gone. You might as well walk around barefoot, like it'd make any difference."

She scoffs. "So are you telling me that you're going to buy me some?"

"Ah," I sigh before answering with the utmost of sarcasm, "maybe when I rob the market of all its money. If they even have any to begin with, that is."

The only response I receive is a few chuckles of pitied laughter, followed by a sudden upsurge in my sister's steps. Per usual, Anita endures in her quick wits and nimble motions, treading on and cleaving a path for me to follow in her footsteps. An influential leader, at best.

Every day for us wanes on with the same repetitious routine. We arise from our slumber during the early hours of morning and proceed to the market after consuming a small but sufficient meal to push us towards the rest of the day's events. Depending on the hustle we are presented with that morning, our stay may only be for a few hours, but it could possibly even last the entire day. Once died down, the two of us head home to our whereabouts located in a shabby tavern off to the south end of the city. Several other families occupy this space in the attempts of obscuring their figures from potential gangs or bandits whose only aims in life are to cause harm to others. Thus is life. We have no choice but to bet against the clock and hope that our survival outruns the ticking of the night.

"Hey, there goes my two favorite people! Maika and Anita! How are you both doing? I haven't seen you for a couple of days, so I was starting to get worried that something happened. You always come by at nearly eight a.m. sharp. What has been going on?"

"Sorry about that, sir," Anita replies, "but we recently had to relocate due to an unexpected turn of events." Bowing her head slightly, she goes on to say, "But we've finally found a somewhat stable place to reside in on the south side of town, so we'll be coming a lot more often. I hope you can understand."

I remain silent; I always let Anita do the talking. Instead, I focus on my own tattered boots and carve shapes into the dirt with the tip of my shoe as they speak.

"The south side? Aw, you knuckleheads have gotta be kidding me. My shop here is all the way on the north side! You really think you can make that trek every morning and night back and forth?"

"I can assure you that you don't have to worry about us, sir."

Our aging friend lightly smacks Anita on the side of the head with his scraggly palm. "Oh, stop it with the formal talk. I swear it drives me up the wall sometimes. We're all friends here. Talk to me like you do your brethren, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir--I mean, yeah...man."

I cannot help but laugh.

"That's what I'm talking about, sister!" Another light smack is directed to Anita's back. Her stiff posture and pursed smile makes it all the more entertaining. "On a serious note, though, listen here. You two are always welcome to stay at my place. I'm sure it's a lot bigger than where your current crib is; the only repercussion is that it's in a bit of a crowded area. But if you can get past the danger of it, then I highly consider you look into it. After all, it's the least I could do for you two since you help me with the shop so much..."

"Thank you for the offer, but I think Maika and I will pass. We wouldn't want to be an inconvenience."

"Cut it out, scrub. You guys would never be an inconvenience to me. In fact, I'd say it's an honor. Why don't you tw--"

"Don't worry," I finally take it upon myself to interrupt, "but we'll be alright. Just take care of yourself instead." I grant him a small smile as a positive sign of reassurance.

The prominent wrinkles under the old man's eyes tone down as the bright lights within his pupils dissipate considerably. A look of loneliness befalls his face for a brief moment but instantly returns to a mask of optimism and happiness.

"If you insist," he affirms with a somewhat solemn smile.

I avert my eyes in guilt. Deep down, I know he wants us to stay. If only we could accompany him in his humble abode.

"Oi, Pete!"

Anita and I swivel our heads to see a man of similar stature to the market owner making his way in our direction.

"Henry! How are you, you rat bastard?" Pete ambles up to what I assume to be his friend as the two exchange a lengthy handshake and a few rough pats on the backs. I take this opportunity to head towards the rear of the outdoor shop and begin organizing the various assortments of bread and water, though they are not in their prime condition. Anita accompanies me soon after and assists me in the task of preparing for the sales of the day. As we do so, I inattentively let the two men's conversation drift by my ears.

"Did you hear the rumors, Pete?"

"Hm? Rumors? There are always rumors around here; I tend to just ignore them. Don't tell me you've fallen for some trap again now."

"Nah, I'm almost confident on this one! A buddy of mine has connections with some of the people who have citizenship and apparently, one of them is trying to help us undergrounders out by bringing plenty of food and beverages down here. It's supposed to be happening tomorrow."

"Is that so?"

"Damn near."

At this, I perk up a little and bring more of my attention to Peter and Henry, inclining my head more to the left so that I can pick up the most minuscule of details from their current discussion.

"And you're not any bit suspicious?"

"Just watch, Pete. Even your frail, old legs will be quaking in those boots of yours once you find out how real this is."

I feel Anita inch closer to me and tug at my arm sleeve. "Are you hearing this?"

I jump at her unexpected touch, dropping a few wooden boxes in the process, but hesitantly nod my head without facing her. It sounds nice. But it also sounds too good to be true.

Pete locks eyes with us.

"Excuse me for one moment," he regards his friend. After receiving a short nod from Henry, he makes his way over to Anita and I. It feels as if I was just caught doing something I should not have been doing. I awkwardly turn around and engross myself with the boxes that I had previously dropped as a way to appear more hung up in the task that I was accomplishing. Pete is a feeble senior with a bearded smile constantly plastered on his face, yet I still find myself intimidated at times.

"I'm assuming you two just heard that?"

"...Possibly," Anita confesses.

"Oi, don't tell me you believe it, too."

"I'm not sure what to think of it quite yet, sir." Anita appears uncomfortable, and I can tell from this that she is conveying the full truth.

Henry saunters up to us as well. "Pete, why are you so apprehensive about it? This is great news!"

"Yes," he mutters so soft to the point that his words are almost incomprehensible, "but nothing great ever happens around here. Of course I'm bound to be skeptical."

Anita casually nods, almost as if the two men and her were only making altercations about the weather. "Pete is right."

"Oh, come on," Henry complains, "y'all are just some Debby-downers."

Pete kneels in front of us and advises, "I know that I'm not in control of what kind of choices you two make and that you're old enough to make your own decisions, but please, I don't think it would be safe for you to partake in this event that Henry is talking about." He reaches behind him and desperately grabs onto several loaves of bread and a pitch of murky water. "Please, you guys. I'll give you as much bread and water as you want for free. I just don't want anybody to get hurt."

"Pete," Anita firmly states, "how many times do we have to tell you not to worry? Maika and I wouldn't be so reckless as to do that without knowing for sure what was going on first. We'll come straight to your shop at eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Right, Maika?"

Everyone's attention shifts to me.

"Yes," I whisper audibly.

"See, Pete? Everything will be okay."

The tension in the old man's jaw loosens when he hears Anita's reassuring words.

I am glad.

He then readjusts his bifocals and grabs us both by the hems of our shirts, lifting us from our kneeling position. "Well, you better get to work now. Oi, who knew two antisocial gobbers could cause an an old man this much stress?" To make things more dramatic, he clutches at his forehead and pretends to faint, doing an awful job at it, might I add.

"Yes, sir," the two of us say in unison, a small smirk taking shape at the corners of Anita's chapped lips.

It is people like Pete who keep our minds and hearts at bay.

It is people like Pete who make us look forward to future days.

It is people like Pete who make living in a world as cruel as this one so beautiful.

So even after a long and tiresome day of selling bread and water, exerting ourselves in the scorching heat for seemingly elongated hours, and traveling back and forth between the front of the shop and the far back of it, I still find complaining about my drudgery to be one of the last things on my mind.

"Well, I believe that's a wrap for today." Anita wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead and lethargically removes the latex gloves from her hands and tosses them in a nearby trash bin. "Good work today, Maika."

I do the same but grab a dry washcloth on my way out and hand it to Anita. "Here. You look like you need it."

"Ah, thanks, Maicoon."

I freeze in my spot.

"...Maicoon?"

"Yeah," Anita chuckles. "Your name is Maika Kuhn. Mai plus Kuhn equals Maicoon. Not to mention you really do look like a raccoon with those heavy bags under your eyes. I think the nickname suits you quite well, actually."

I face my reflection in a nearby bucket of water and raise an eyebrow when I realize how right she is. Her reflection appears beside me, and I notice her cheeky, jeering smile.

"Oh, whatever, Anita. Sorry that I can't be of model status like you."

She bursts out in a series of heartfelt laughter at my lame retort, leaving me slightly irritated. But nonetheless, she is smiling and happy, so it makes up for all of my negative connotations towards her in that moment. Because of this, I let her win this round and decide not to make any further comments.

"Hey, don't forget to lock the boxes on your way out!" Pete's voice echoes somewhere off in the back of his shop.

"They're locked!" Anita reaffirms. With a light push to my back, she comments, "Let's go home." She turns around one last time and shouts, "See you tomorrow morning, sir!"

"Anita, what the hell did I tell you about calling me sir? This isn't a job interview, so cut it out!"

But we are already on our way home.

The latest hours of the night in the city always bring forth the most fear. Darkness does not work in anybody's favor except for the antagonist. A dark atmosphere to accompany those with dark and twisted minds. Despite mediocre fighting skills, Anita and I must always be careful, doing our best to assimilate with the shadows and weave our way through a mesh of tapering streets and alleys while altogether keeping a prudent watch for any unanticipated visitors. Stale air hugs our exposed skin and threatens to stifle our every breath, hanging idly by our noses and infiltrating our already dry throats. That is the way it has always been.

The entire city is completely submerged in darkness, save for the occasional flicker of light that perforates the environment when a cigar is lit or a gunshot is carelessly released from its barrel. If short yet strident footsteps gradually become heard in a nearby street, one must wait for silence to overrun the streets once again. Sometimes, it takes several seconds. Other times, it takes several hours. But once we are confined in the safety of our tavern and are settled in for the night, Anita asks the question that the both of us must have been dwelling over on our expedition here.

"So what do you think about those rumors?"

I mull over this question for quite awhile. There are many thoughts running through my weary mind about this subject, both hopeful ones and hopeless ones. But since my ideas and opinions remain tangled in a knot that I cannot seem to get them out of, I settle on answering with, "I'm sure something is likely to happen. I just don't know what."

"Mm." Anita seems to be mulling over the question as well, putting her own thoughts into words. "In the end, we'll find out one way or another. Plus, Pete's shop is close to the stairwell, not to mention he'll probably catch us up on any news if he hears of it."

I hesitantly nod my head, forgetting that my sister cannot see me in the darkness that veils our near dormant forms.

But like the innocent butterfly that only wanted to explore the world around it, I can only predict one thing.

And that is that the moment we are granted with the slightest of hope, it is all lost soon thereafter.

* * *

 

"Thank you and have a good rest of your day, ma'am."

She is the first customer of the day, and it is already late afternoon. It seems that most individuals are preoccupied with other tasks today.

Pete stands next to me as he stacks more bread loaves in a wooden crate on the stand. "Jeez, that's only our first customer? Weekends are usually so busy. Could it be those darned rumors? Do you think that they're true?"

"Could be," Anita curiously mentions as she stands on my other side and refills two of the water jugs up front.

The old man delves into deep thought for a minute or two until he finally tells us, "Why don't you two see what's going on? I might have been a bit demanding yesterday when asking you to stay. I was just so worried that something bad was going to happen."

"That's perfectly normal. We completely understand. No harsh feelings." Anita strips herself of her gloves and turns to me. "Well, do you want to go check things out?"

I stare at one of the top loaves of bread in silence and notice small green splotches coating the outside edges. My stomach churns.

"Yeah."

We take the short trip up north and are soon greeted with a large commotion and a cacophony of voices. Naturally, we choose to travel where the source of noise is coming from.

I do not regret doing so.

Lines of precious commodities are displayed directly in front of the stairwell to main civilization. From what my eyes can discern, I observe several stacks of wool blankets and linens, along with sturdy crates brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables. My mouth waters involuntarily as I conjure up all of the potential flavors my parched tongue could encounter with these nutritious and wholesome provisions. Looking over at Anita, I can tell she feels the same by the way her eyes gleam desirably and how she swallows the saliva that coats the inside of her mouth. The sequences of colors and combinations of textures that seep into my pupils are almost too much to bare. It is quite the considerable contrast when compared to the usual view of this run-down city. Even its inhabitants exhibit an upbeat and buoyant attitude, something I have had yet to notice here.

So the rumors must be true.

A plump man of large countenance stands amidst the crowd of people, prolonging his stay by the stairwell in order to successfully watch over those who appear before him. I presume him to be the one who organized this pleasant event for us underground dwellers. Distinguishing his features a bit further, I am able to identify him as a man I recognize. He is often found roaming the streets of the underground, robed in a luxurious suit that was evidently tailored to his fashion sense, indicative of his opulence and prosperity, a sizable juxtaposition to the remainder of us. Though initially, one may feel profound emotions of jealousy, we all privately aspire to be the same. The fact that an undergrounder was able to free themselves from the shackles of captivity and was better able to enhance their life through the pursuit of their own will goes to show that nearly anything is possible.

"Calm down! Calm down!" He clamors out, expending his breath as he tries to grab the attention of the people. However, the uproar is like wildfire, and he is a mere cup of water being spilt on the flames in the hopes of extinguishing the turmoil. Of course, though, this is to no avail.

Anita and I advance closer but make sure not to come too close, for even though these rumors appear to be true, the unexpected is still to be expected, especially when surrounded by a populous group. We come to the agreement that placing ourselves off to the side of the pandemonium would be most suitable at a time like this. The center of attention is still within our view, but there is also a quick means of escape if need be.

From where we currently stand, diverse faces present themselves to my watchful eyes. Clusters of people are intertwined within the limited area, some dealing packages, others anxiously anticipating their own. There is an unsubtle distinction between those who have received their packages and those who haven't. I see a handful with zestful smiles and eyes lit aflame by spirit and exhilaration, eyeing their share of goods with utmost delight, and then some who wait impatiently for their own share, scrambling around one another in the hopes of being first even though it tends to only make the situation worse. But still, I cannot forget about those with a melancholy longing in their eyes, the ones who are without the proper strength needed to cut to the front of the line. Nonetheless, they hang around. This is their last hope at the means of survival, after all.

I wish the best for them.

Five men keenly pass these bundles about to anybody with outstretched hands. A middle-aged man with dark, caramel skin and an unkempt beard drifts away from his position upon the stairwell and begins to hand items to people who are unable to move themselves or who have been waiting patiently for some time. He dawdles over to Anita and I, handing us each a care package repleted with clothing, a single wool blanket, and enough fruits and vegetables to make a fulfilling and savory meal of healthy stew for the next week or so. Anita bows her head slightly, lowering it towards the kind man as a way to impart her deeply felt reverence for him and his integrous comrades.

"Mama!" A child no less than the age of eight complains to his mother, "I don't think the shoes in this will fit me. They're too big." This is followed by a plagued cry of irritation.

"Oh, honey," the mother consoles, "that's okay. We can just give them to your father. Or perhaps, we can do a little manipulation and turn them into something else that will suit your liking."

The adolescent crosses his skinny arms in complete opposition to his mother's thoughtful suggestion. "Hmph." With a pout of his lips, he storms away from her.

He is quite the stubborn child.

"Hey, woman! You! Old girl!"

Gazing down to meet his mulish stare, I soon realize the little boy is referring to none other than myself.

"Eh?"

"Yeah, you!" He then points at my left hand, the hand that is holding my well-made care package.

Carelessly, I lift it up. "This?"

He vigorously nods his head.

"You want this?" I raise an eyebrow.

Again, he nods.

Right as I am about to shoo him away and snap at him for being so disrespectful to his mother, an idea is simultaneously revealed in my head.

I lower my hand and lean my package towards him.

"Let's switch," I state blandly, giving into his strong desire to get what he wants. But at this moment, that is not important to me. I have other plans. In my eyes, this is a mutual trade.

He exclaims a short but hearty "Deal!" as we make the transaction. His mother reappears moments later, dragging her son away by the ear. I find it to be quite amusing.

But a few minutes after, I am also dragged by the ear.

"Maika, I swear...The next time you stray away from me, I'm leaving you for good."

Anita.

"Sorry," I mumble quietly as I return to pacing behind her.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Mai. I brought Pete a package of his own, and he said that the two of us could just head home for the day since there was barely any business. I assumed you were somewhere by my side, seeing how you're quiet for a majority of the time, anyway. Well, turns out, I was almost halfway home until I realized you weren't even with me. I was talking to myself, for God's sake."

I bite my lip to refrain from smiling.

But her words are only like background noise in my ears. Right now, I am completely immersed with other thoughts.

"--r the next couple of days...Maika!"

"...Hm? I'm listening."

"You're kidding me. Oh my goodness, even if you're physically there, you can't even find it in yourself to be there mentally? I'm honestly done with you."

This time, I do not contain my laughter.

Upon arriving at our isolated tavern, we unpack our belongings. I discreetly hide the boots that once belonged to the young boy, storing them under my new blanket. Anita glances over at my items before questioning, "What happened to all those fruits and vegetables you had?"

I pause and comb through my memories until remembering the blood-drained and malnourished faces of the people who were unable to receive a care package because there were not enough spares around. I recall forsaking several of my own for their possession rather than for myself. I look away from her riveting glare that pounds into my own without shame.

"Don't tell me you gave away our food..."

My mouth opens slightly to make a defenseful argument, but I am interrupted before I can do so.

"You know, I understand that you're inclined to help others after seeing their pitiful faces and all, but you DO realize that we're pitiful as well, right?" She gestures around the cramped room, giving light to our own circumstances. "Sometimes, you have to think about yourself before you think about others. I'm sorry to say it like that, but otherwise, you'll be the one that's dead and not them. Is that how you want it? I mean, this world really is survival of the fittest. Only those who are able to survive are the ones who survive, to put it simply."

A long silence ensues.

I am ambiguous, as I do not know how to perceive her statement.

Gingerly, I recline in my spot and let the warmth from the wool blanket wrap carefully around my body despite the heat that strikes down on me from outside. There is a certain comfort that I find within the boundaries of the tangible material, a safe feeling about knowing that something is physically there.

Before I am able to suffuse myself into a deep sleep, Anita speaks up.

"Have you read the journal Mother gave you yet?"

Instinctively, my hands reach under one of the planks of the floor to feel for the flimsy, poorly-made journal I once received from my mother.

"I only read the first entry."

"Oh."

Another silence.

"Have you?"

She instantly answers, "Only the first paragraph. I couldn't bring myself to read any more."

"Ah," I reply as an indication of my acknowledgment.

"I hope we find her soon."

I muster a faint "Yeah."

But I cannot help but ponder back to the idea of survival of the fittest.

The lonesome butterfly downs nectar through its drawn-out tongue from a solitary flower. A dragonfly hastens by and consumes the fluttering insect wholeheartedly, but is soon after ingested by a famished frog. A nearby fish widens its hollow mouth and engulfs the frog in its entirety, but a bird sweeps down with such dexterity and, with not a single beat missed, takes the life of the aquatic creature. Only then does a rapacious predator prowl about the city, lolling through the alleys, foreseeing the perfect moment to lunge forward and devour the bird in a single, bloody bite.

Mother, what have you seen out there?

When it comes to humans, I do not consider them to be part of survival of the fittest. Rather, it is luck of the draw. I believe it to be more like a very hearty game of gambling. Dice are rolled in the hopes of winning, but it is a game of chance; nobody knows what will come their way. That is, unless they are one of the few who manages to get the right outcome. It must pay to have trick dice. When money is already in the hands of an egomaniacal risk-taker, there seems to be a common pattern in which they always win. Unfortunately, this must be due to their wealth and deception of the system rather than their depth of perception. They get to gather all of the gold despite their already exponentially growing pile of riches. The remainder are poverty-stricken once again and are pulled closer to a life overrun by depression, pills, and thick, penetrating needles. A domino effect of sorts. It is a never-ending cycle of hope, subsequently followed by hopelessness. There must never be a dull moment for those who are the most fortunate of us all as they recline on a throne of our misery and suffering.

Well...

There is always that one person, isn't there?

The one who uses a meticulous strategy to win, surprising the rest of us, starting from the bottom and working their way up through the intricate processes of their mind, no fraud necessary. The maneuvers in their brain constantly turn as they develop the most suitable strategy, respectfully winning the game and taking it all. Rare it may be, but that is the definition of true success. True success equates to freedom, and freedom is a brilliant starlight that I yearn to reach out for. It is enthralling, and it is beautiful.

I aspire to graze my deprived fingertips against it some day.

 


	3. A Dire Gamble

Chaos. That is what will succeed a lucky roll of dice. At last, somebody will feel content with their acquired results but soon enough, it will all be confiscated by the hands of the greedy. Though these pompous hands may not be able to change the inevitable, they can surely impede with its expected arrival, delaying a once supposed fate. That is the power of money. However, the two plastic cubes will still remain impartial to any player who engages in this little game; the only thing they will abide by is gravity and the three commonly known laws of motion, oblivious to all else.

One. An object in motion stays in motion. That is, unless some palpable, outside force is applied to it. Once the dice are released from the perpetrator's hands, that is it. They will diverge onto their own path now, at least until being stopped by some other distant entity.

Two. Force is equivalent to mass times acceleration. The weight of one's hands and how much intensity they invest into the flick of their wrist is determinant of how high the dice will reach, how many times they will spin, and ultimately, in how many seconds they will land. A kinship between horizontal and vertical velocities: who will outdo the other? Perhaps, it is a low but sharp throw, one where the die propels forward in a trail that is almost perfectly parallel with the ground. Or just as plausible, the throw may be skyrocketed into the air, following the track of an invisible pole, similar to that of a penny being flipped when partaking in an intense game of heads or tails.

And three. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. When the dice cease to move any further and there is a clear pattern of dots displayed on the top faces of the cubes, there will be a reaction. For the one who lets go of the dice, he may either erupt into an immense joy or grind his teeth in utmost frustration. But for those who work against him, they will have the opposite reaction. If it so happens that the man is in luck and is indeed taking in the coins, then the rest are destined to falsely claim that that man is at fault, a narcissistic cheater. Even if everything at play was flawlessly set up in advance so that nobody would be able to cheat the system, people will still desperately cling onto whatever means they can at getting by, paying no mind to who they are running over and squishing beneath their raunchy feet in the process. After all, humans are inherently evil.

Another provoked individual will confidently snatch the dice away and fearlessly shake them within the perimeters of his cupped palms. Muffled clicking from the sounds of dice clashing together will somehow resound against the walls of the small room despite the dominating controversy and dispute. Accusations will be made, angry fingers will be pointed, and clenched fists will be thrown. After a short time, the air will slice into two as the dice fly with a crisp edge across the entirety of the room. They will bounce off of the rusted wooden planks that adhere to the grimy floor, and everyone will soon become silent again as they watch, frozen in their seats by some unexplainable force. One die will hit the edge of a wobbly chair, shooting off to the right in a rhythmic series of bounces and skips. The other will keep leveling forward. Attentive eyes will monitor closely. But the dice, they will only continue rolling...

Rolling...

Rolling...

Rolling...

* * *

 

It begins after several weeks. The late evening approaches with a slow meander, coupled with the gradual dimming of phosphorescent lights that hang idly by street lamps dispersed throughout the inert city. The activities of the day that were once teeming with boisterous deeds and chores die down into a complacent dormancy. Humans have taken to rest, as have the animals. Even the nocturnal owls and rats nestle in for the night, taking advantage of the nooks and crannies that lie between adjacent barrels or isolated trash cans.

Anita and I have not been to Pete's shop nearly as much as before, the principal reason for that being many people have decided to start their own little businesses or markets. This, in turn, has led to a considerable decrease in customers. But I do not think that Pete really minds. After that eventful day several weeks ago, many citizens have become noticeably happy. Those few nutritious fruits and vegetables seem to have been a big enough influence on them to replenish their lost motivation or provide them with sufficient strength. It gave them the small push they needed to pull themselves away from a darkness that craved their afflicted souls. That darkness is now no longer able to engulf them. The way that it had once pressed a heavy weight on their burdened shoulders has finally depleted; citizens are now able to stretch their aching bodies more freely. The satisfaction from other people's peace of mind is certainly a more pleasant feeling than gathering a decent amount of customers for the shop; I am positive that Pete feels the same.

Of course, though, this does not go without saying that there are still quarrels throughout the city. I witness it every now and then. For those who have already run out of provisions, they oftentimes take it upon themselves to try and steal from others. It makes me ponder as to whether or not being selfish is an innate behavior. It is quite baffling to comprehend the fact that more people than not only care about their own well-beings, and only theirs. But I do realize that the fortunate gifts we were so kindly granted with were doomed to create some type of ailment. It only makes sense to see such a thing.

Every aspect of life could be thought of as contributing to a seesaw. To put it simply, one side occupies the good and the other side occupies the bad. In order to keep this seesaw in balance, there must be an equal amount of both good and bad. If too much of one is placed upon the latter of a specific side, then the seesaw will tip one direction too far. But it will put itself back in check by summoning something for the opposing side. So I am not surprised by the occasional disturbances. It is only natural.

As a way to fill up my time recently, I have decided to work on a little project of my own. The boots that I had received a while back prove to be a bit troublesome when it comes to fixing, but I have been trying my best to alter them in a way so that they best fit Anita's foot size. The shoes were a bit large for my liking, so I have decided to use my mediocre skills in crafting to adjust them for her. Following countless lethargic days and nights, I believe I have finally reached my goal. Being resourceful is a handy trait to have.

After I complete any final touches I would like the boots to possess, I calmly approach my sister, who currently resides in our designated corner of the tavern. She appears exhausted in spite of the upturn of events in the city. Her tired eyes glance over at me, and I cannot help but laugh when I realize that she is now the one who looks like a raccoon instead of me.

Slowly, I remove the boots from behind me and place them in front of her without haste. It takes her a second to be aware of what they are since we are deluged in an incredible absence of light but eventually, I watch her tilt her head to one side and smile in a confused manner.

"What is this?"

I remain quiet, per usual. But eventually, I decide to speak up.

"They're yours."

With a profound excitement, she leans forward from her spot against the wall, causing a loud creaking noise to echo throughout the room in the process. She slides forward and crosses her legs like that of a child when they receive a new toy that they had been wishing for for the longest time.

Being careful with her touch, Anita begins to lightly trace the outside edges of the boots, then eventually travels down to the sturdy laces and plays with the aglets that are attached at the end. A grin establishes itself on her face as she notices the little decorations I embellished on the sides of the shoes.

"You know I hate sparkles," she laughs.

"I know."

She laughs even harder at this and instantly goes to remove the shoes she is currently wearing. I can tell that these boots were already on their last days because the moment she hurriedly takes off the first shoe, the entire sole rips apart and detaches from the rest of the material. I guess I gifted them to her at just the right moment.

While she puts the remaining shoe on, a lone gunshots punctures the silence of the still atmosphere somewhere in the far distance. A handful of seconds later, it is followed by a couple more. But this is something that we have become accustomed to. Not much attention is ever devoted to such an event. It is most probable that another brawl is taking place somewhere, during the hours when the concealed sun is most at rest.

I take this time to look at Anita and really distinguish her features as she finishes putting on her shoes. Her pale skin is illuminated by a nearby candle, emphasizing the dark shadows that surround the lower portion of her eye sockets. Her long and curling brown hair falls down in accented waves all the way down to her hips. Her rounded nose protrudes from her face in a way that I can only describe as innocent, though I am not really sure why that word first comes to mind. Her rosebud lips are chapped but still uphold their full qualities and appreciable plumpness.

I have always found it a bit humorous that the two of us persist in being polar opposites. Though she may be two years older than myself, at the prime age of twenty-two, I am almost confident that we could be mistaken as twins. The only reason why we are not is because we have such contrasting interests. But I bet if we took it upon ourselves to dress and act the same way, nobody would be able to tell us apart.

While her hair is long and in accented waves, mine is only straight and cropped quite short. She prefers a wider spectrum of colors when it comes to her choice in clothing, dressing herself in light pastels and vivacious neons, dependent on how she is feeling that day. But for myself, I only wear what is provided to me or what I first lay my eyes on. I have never taken to a strong fashion sense, but it is possible that Anita has. It saddens me in a sense to know that if she was not chained down to this odious city, all of the boys would be flocking over her like birds in a newly-made birdhouse. She could at last parade her talent for fashion and beauty rather than suppress it into the crevices of her mind that are only utilized for her imagination.

In a way, Anita inspires me to be like her, with her mindset in particular. We have both grown up in the same circumstances, yet I find that she does not let our disadvantages pull her down. Furthermore, she continues to smile with sincerity and laugh wholeheartedly; she even finds it in herself to joke around when she can. It is both respectable and admirable. Because of her, I believe I can be the same. Even I have begun to feel the darkness deliberately unlatch itself from its once aggressive hold on my shoulders.

Anita interrupts my wandering thoughts by saying, "It really is the small things that we must find beauty in, huh?" It is evident that she is deep in thought by the way she aimlessly fidgets with her laces, holding an austere kind of smile.

I look over towards her, and it takes me a lengthy minute to realize that she is referring to our mother's first journal entry to us. She must have written similar things in Anita's journal. I scoot closer to her and mindlessly begin to fix her shoelaces since she had tied them incorrectly. It is like she forgot how to do so, but it almost makes sense in a way; she has gone so long with broken, makeshift shoelaces to begin with. As I weave the thick strings in and out of the holes they were originally put through, Anita speaks again.

"You'd make a good engineer, you know..."

I falter in my swift movements, but only briefly, before I continue with my previous task. This is unexpected to hear from her because not even I had ever considered the potential possibility. It just goes to show that Anita really does think outside of the box and strives for more than what she is currently endowed with. And although I sometimes do the same, I tend to push those types of thoughts away as soon they arrive.

I admit, "I never really took the time to think about it."

"Yeah, I mean, look. You fixed these boots with your own two hands. Not everyone can just do that. You're always being ingenious with what you're given. You might not be the strongest person out there, but you have pretty good strategy. A lot of people tend to just discard that importance and only focus on strength. But I swear, strategy is just as important, if not more." She wraps her arms around her bent knees before adding, "Not to mention, you'd probably be one hell of a chess player."

I smile faintly at her inquiry but still remain focused on tying her boots. Another gunshot sound pierces my ears, reverberating against my eardrums. A subdued scream accompanies it in a location that is not too far off from my own.

"I'm serious, Maika. Don't keep your talents comatose."

I just nod my head in response, not wanting to tackle the subject any further. Sighing, I back away and begin to stretch my stiff muscles from being in the same position for too long.

Our mother always did her best to raise us as well as she could. Vivid recollections seep into my memory as I think back to all of the times she would sneak home an abundance of books burrowed within her fatigued arms, aiming to educate us on how to read and expand our knowledge.

Every evening, at seven o'clock sharp, she would whip out some writing utensils and teach us to write in both print and cursive, not to mention force us to recite the content of dictionaries that she kidnapped from abandoned libraries as a way to ameliorate our vocabulary. "This will be of great use to you some day, take my word for it." Those were always her exact words. "Writing is a way to exorcise all of the demons that sink insecurities into the depths of your aching soul. It is a way to transpose your dark thoughts into something beautiful, a way of embodying your truest and most colored emotions. I know that I say freedom is a state of mind, but writing...writing is an exception. Writing really is freedom. Nobody can tell me otherwise." I feel as if these words have been embedded into my brain, then stapled to every one of my lobes for extra precautions, and finally tattooed over each fold of my cortex, every wrinkle that follows a unique path of turns and twists and twirls. Mother really did pour all of her faith into writing, and she wanted Anita and I to know it.

She often lulled us to sleep by reading short stories about the world above. This indeed covered a wide scope of topics and themes, varying from the notorious Titans that roam about the outside world all the way to the towering walls that seemingly protect our nation. From the way she spoke about it, one would assume that she herself had experienced all of these things first hand, but that is not the case. She was just passionate. The stories would drone on as she continued to speak about them long after her two enervated children fell asleep, losing track of space and time. The power of knowledge was an essence unlike any other to her. More than any gem in the ground, any diamond in the rough, or any gold excavated in the soil, Mother found knowledge to be the most laudable treasure of all. It is not tangible, but it is a treasure all the same. I cannot deny this fact.

A dull pain that originates within my chest cavity spreads across the rest of my body like wildfire as I reflect on these melancholy memories. I am grateful for her guiding me in the right direction by drilling these indisputable facts into this constricted head of mine and for risking her life to mould a new and intelligent generation. Though my heart ripples with a gnawing guilt that eats me from the inside out, I am aware that it is up to individuals like Anita and I to carry forth our mother's elaborate perspective and careful details of life.

I want to be able to view the world the way she once did.

On instinct, I grab my mother's journal and study its outer features. The cover is a dark charcoal with a fading of white sprinkled across some of the corners, suggestive of its age and overuse. The corners are also slightly bent, for my mother always creased the pages in order to remember where she last left off with her stories or writings. I always criticized her for it, claiming that she was ruining the material, but she would immediately counter my statement by nonchalantly responding with, "The material is the words that are engraved on the page, not the page itself. Maybe when the actual words become distorted will I consider taking the time to possibly agree with your complaining. But for now..." Then, she would narrow her eyes at me without breaking eye contact as she made another dog ear on the page, using her lips to seal it and make the fold permanent.

When opening the notebook and flipping through the entries, the distinct scent of musk melded with ink ascends from the thin pages and floats up and into my nostrils whenever I take a deep breath in. For some unknown reason, it is a comforting smell. The handwriting scrawled within these pages is written with such delicacy. The words etched inside have a fluidity like that of grass as it sways concurrently with a simple exhale of the wind. Effortlessly breathtaking. I compare it to my own penmanship. There is a respective number of similarities between the two, especially the way we curl our g's, j's, and y's, defining the ending loop with a quick flick of our quills. In addition to this, we also lengthen and coil the tips of several of the consonants, specifically the f, h, and k. When all is said and done at the end of the day, like mother will always be like daughter.

Mother, where are you?

You vowed to love us for as long as you lived, yet you left us. You left quicker than you do in the torment of my own dreams. There is no coherent explanation for your actions. They do not add up to one definite answer.

Why is that?

_"There are people who you have yet to meet in your life who will love you the way I do, and you're not even aware of it yet."_

My mother never ceases to leave me in a perplexed state. I do not know why she would feel the need to ever tell me such a thing.

I force myself to tuck the journal within the waistband of my pants as a reminder to read another entry later on in the day. But my contemplations are hindered when the rickety tavern doors suddenly fly open and a woman drenched in blood, either her own or somebody else's, stumbles inside.

"H-H-Help..." She sputters out.

This woman is someone who I do not recognize. By judging the faces of the others who stand in this room, I can tell the same goes for them. She has medium-length blonde hair that clings to her sweaty cheeks, but they are very sunken in, a sure sign of malnourishment. Her ripped garments expose her stomach and shoulders, along with the deep scar that all underground inhabitants possess on the back of one of their shoulder blades. Fear envelops her dainty figure, for the way her eyes tremble in angst tells me that she has just witnessed something terrible.

She repeats with a bit more force, "HELP ME."

Many of the families back away. They prefer to not have anything to do with gang-affiliated ordeals. They grab onto each other's shoulders and quickly scuttle out of the tavern one by one since there is not enough space for multiple individuals to go through at once. The woman releases a high pitched scream, and I feel it lace my own nerves with fear. Anita and I speedily trail behind the others, but the woman clutches onto the hem of my shirt with a strength I did not think possible from her meager appearance.

It unnerves me to see this woman so distraught, but getting involved in other people's affairs can lead one to an unpleasant fate. Could it be that a man she has close relations with turned his back on her and sabotaged her at the moment she needed him most? Or could she be in collusion with some under-the-table group and have gotten into some type of altercation, leading her to her current situation?

"P...lease..."

I desperately try to unclench her hand from my shirt, but she only clasps on tighter. She consequently sputters out a chunk of blood-filled mucus, gasping for air right after. Since she does not seem to be willing to let go of her hold on me any time soon, though, I submit to her pleas.

"Please what?"

She strenuously shakes her head in opposition.

"No, no..."

I attempt to push her away with even more strain than before. But this time, she pronounces each syllable more clearly.

"Po...lice..."

"Police?" I question curiously.

"Yes." She nods her head in agreement. "M-M-Military police..."

A stream of gunshots follows and several shouts outside are heard.

"What about them?" Anita calls out from behind. I can tell she is impatient by the way she crosses her arms over her chest, right foot tapping against the ground.

A long pause unfolds as the woman struggles to gather the words to her next statement. We warily watch her: the way her breathing is quick and rigid, the way her eyes dart back and forth as they drink in their last images of life before closing indefinitely, the way her fingers twitch at the tips in a weak attempt at showing signs of life. But in a hoarse tone, the woman finally speaks. And her proceeding words prudently wrap their hands around my fragile spine and dig into it with their fingernails, causing chills to surge throughout my entire body. She looks us straight in the eyes.

"The military police are here and they're here to kill everyone in the underground."

* * *

 

Chaos. That is what will succeed a lucky roll of dice. The two cubes will finally halt in place, and the men will swarm around the room, searching for their hidden location. One die will have landed in a niche between a closed treasure chest and a chair while the other patiently waits under a table that is strewn with near-empty alcohol bottles, can openers, and crushed pills.

Two different men will grab the dice simultaneously and slam them on the table of which the game is being played. A loud knock will bounce off of the wood as the surface is hit. The gruff hands will remove themselves from the plastic cubes, revealing each top face. Even the earth will falter in its steps when circumventing the sun.

What could the game of chance possibly have in store for them today?

The men peer over at the dice. One lone dot broadcasts itself on each top face for everybody to see.

And in gambling, this can only resemble one thing.

Snake eyes.

 


	4. Bombs and Bullets

The many-sided functionalities of the human brain are both fascinating and terrifying. How the varying lobes collaborate in order to formulate our ever-expanding thoughts, dreams, emotions, and memories is a fact that I have yet to know the answer to but nonetheless, I am feverishly anticipating for this discovery to be made. Though this organ never ceases to amaze, it still contains many downsides. What may originally be perceived as an advantage for the human brain can easily transfigure into something quite drastic.

For instance, we are able to concoct our own unique thoughts based off of every individual experience we have gone through. We muster the occurrences in our lives and assign them to their designated position in a specific lobe: the frontal for cognitive abilities, the parietal for touches and tastes, the occipital for the sights we absorb with our eyes. This allows us to create our own opinions, but it also allows us to unwillingly develop dark and twisted thoughts, thus leading to decisions subjugated by regret. They are the thoughts that frighten even ourselves.

The dreams that we encounter during REM sleep is still a concept most peculiar to scientists. Strings of our life experiences are supposedly intertwined into a larger knot, and we are then submerged into our own kind of fairytale, an alteration of real life. We then wake up with new ideas and a wondrous creativity. We are inspired. But the backlash of this is the scary nightmares that are endowed upon us, the ones that rip our sanity into paltry shreds and leave it to disintegrate into muddy soil.

Emotions are vivid splashes of paint on an enlarged canvas. They are a flower that has just blossomed for its beloved spring. They are even the keys on an out-of-tune piano. They long for our interests, like maybe the way we prefer cappuccino over green tea or chocolate in comparison to vanilla. They determine why we favor the vibrations of a cello instead of a guitar and how we would rather play an intense game of volleyball compared to soccer. But they also determine our pessimistic perspectives on life. The sight of a handgun at first glance can trigger one into PTSD as they cradle themselves in a lone corner of the room, whimpering as they drown in unfavorable emotions. Running into an ill-natured ex-boyfriend after such a long time separated from one another can lead to seething glares of anger and a simmering boil of rage in the bloodstream.

But then again, we cannot have happy emotions without sad ones. And we cannot have proud emotions without disappointed ones. That is how a full circle is drawn; otherwise, there will only be a quadrant or two, a half-circle at most.

And memories. We most often associate memories with pure bliss: laughter ringing like bells in one's ears, family outings dedicated to strengthening bonds, a competitive card game of Egyptian Ratscrew with brothers and sisters...But what about the time your father grabbed you by the neck and smashed an open beer bottle upon your head, leaving a sizable laceration that decorated the right side of your face, like someone had taken a thick paintbrush dipped in dark red paint and traced it from the top of your forehead and along your hairline, ending right above where your ear connects to the edge of your jaw? Or the time you were walking home from running errands by yourself and three men followed you home, waiting for the perfect, most vulnerable moment to put you in a chokehold? You screamed and screamed and screamed, but no one came. What about those memories? Not all memories are bliss; some leave us utterly traumatized. We wish to discard these memories, but our brain holds onto them dearly. And I am not fully cognizant yet as to why.

But still, all in all, each of these components plays a pivotal role in cultivating our true selves: our characters, personalities, mindsets, and intelligence. It is what allows us to make the decisions we make. Sometimes, they are the right decisions. But sometimes, they are not. Biases are unavoidable.

When we practice something for so long, it almost begins to come to us as a reflex. At a young age, we are taught to walk on two legs. Now, it is something that we just do, no thinking involved. In many ways, this is an advantage. When we practice something constantly, we are oftentimes praised for it. But in a sense, it can also lead to our ignorance and our downfall.

Personally, I have acclimatized to the cries of the helpless and the sounds of bullets drumming against every building surface. It has lodged a permanent place inside of my heart, satiating me with ignorance. It is an aspect of my life that I have become so used to that I have never even taken the time to consider why I allow myself to be surrounded by this sound.

I do not know why these weapons are made.

I do not know why they are in the hands of people who should not be permitted to own them.

I do not know why these noises are like a soothing lullaby that assuages my distressing thoughts at night.

Not too long ago, I was still a mere child. As an adolescent, I expected others to do things for me since I was not able to do so myself. My superiors were the ones who disciplined me on all that they knew about the world that we live in.

Where did these moments go?

I blinked for one second and all of a sudden, I am now being thrust upon the life of an adult, pressurized to make my own decisions and think for myself, extorted to lead the next generation. But at heart, I am still only a child.

How am I supposed to lead the next generation with this childish mindset?

And now that all I can hear are the noises of crying and the ricocheting of bullets outside, the sounds of suffering and animosity and despair, I am finally aware. It has taken me until now to realize that the world we live in is this cruel.

But no, it is not the world itself that is cruel.

It is us, those who inhabit it, that make it such an undesirable place.

Anita throws open the unstable tavern doors with her kicking foot, and a stale, musty air whips me across the face. Outside, people frantically run in multiple directions as men and women in specified uniforms with unicorns stitched onto their leather jackets aim their weapons at those who are unfit for fighting. Flashing lights whiz about the city, giving the appearance of a million fireflies rapidly buzzing back and forth.

Since the tavern is an inadequate location for providing protection, Anita and I find ourselves following the crowd of people outside. It is an unspoken precept. The first and foremost rule of the underground: if you see a group of people running, you run, too. You do not look back and if there are bullets involved, you run in an erratic array of directions so that your chances of survival are boosted.

But I soon realize that Anita and I do not need to do this, for a horde of people have already swept us up into their massive cluster and begin to hectically push one another forward. Anita becomes separated from me; the crowd's pushing has made her stray somewhere more towards the front of the group. I can still see her from my relative position, so I try to squeeze my way through any individual that is blocking my path in order to reach her. But I fail at accomplishing this because I can barely even feel my own two legs touching the ground; the shoving of every which way has practically lifted me off of my feet, and it is like I am being carried away by these people's bodies. But eventually, I notice that Anita has broken away from the group.

My mind is suddenly conflicted on what to do.

But in the end, my heart will always run to her.

I do my best to slip away from the crowd, stumbling away as soon as an open space presents itself to me. I land on all fours, and several people trample over me in the process. Their shoes unintentionally scrape against my sides and jab at my rib cage, inducing a violent coughing attack on my end from the countless particles of dirt that blow up in my face due to many pairs of feet scuffing about. I stagger to regain balance and when I finally do, I initiate to running.

Where did Anita run off to?

Even though the dirt leaves a penetrating stinging sensation in the back of my throat and has left me somewhat temporarily blinded, I do not stop in my venture to locate my sister.

I whip my head to the left, only to see a man in what I assume to be the military police uniform angrily beating a frail woman with the butt of his rifle. His menacing demeanor gives off the impression that he is thoroughly enjoying himself, like every hit he delivers to this woman injects his body with an unhealthy dose of ego.

To my right, there is a group of men and women lying on top of each other, but they do not seem to be making any type of movement whatsoever. From this, I conclude that they must be drained of life already. The bullet holes that singe through their shirts are pocketed with a crimson shade of blood, and the dragging stench of sawdust permeates my nostrils.

But straight ahead, I catch sight of Anita's loose ponytail flailing left and right as she sprints away. At seeing this, I run even faster.

It is a risky move, but I sinfully rely on other individuals' bodies to provide me with a shield of sorts. As I increase my speed, I feel almost weightless; the moment one foot steadily hits the ground, it bounces right back off for the other foot to do the same. It is like I am running along the full length of a set of elastic springs.

An unexpected flare goes off somewhere to my left, and I feel a sharp pain embed itself near the edge of my stomach. My flow of running falters slightly, and I clamp my hand over the distressed area, only to bring it back in front of my face and discover it to be soaked with my own blood. Thankfully, the adrenaline is coursing through my veins well enough to a point where it is preventing my perception of pain from piling up at the area of damage.

"Anita!" I call out breathlessly, choking on the flecks of sawdust that wander idly in the air. "Why--" I gasp again, "Why are you going backwards?" For some unknown reason, Anita is heading towards the influx of soldiers instead of away. When she refuses to answer, I urgently reach out and grab her by the hood of her jacket. Her considerable decrease in momentum and my continuous running at full speed do not end in our terms favorably, as this causes us to collide head on and tumble to the ground as one entity in a nearby alley.

"Anita, why are you running in the opposite direction? We should go the way the others are going. There are more houses to hide in with sturdier walls to protect us. Why run towards the stairwell when--"

"Shhh..." Anita's soft hush prompts me to cease my nervous speaking. She instinctively reaches out to my face and wipes away at my cheeks with the edge of her sleeve. When she retracts her cold hand, I notice splotches of liquid on the material of cloth. I shakily lift my own hand to my cheek and find that they are washed out with tears. "Mai, I know a way out."

If I am so accustomed to the sounds of bullets, then why am I so distraught at this moment?

If I am so accustomed to the sounds of bullets, then why am I trembling so much?

If I am so accustomed to the sounds of bullets, then why am I so terrified right now?

I know why; I am just too afraid to admit it out loud.

It is because now, these bullets are aimed towards me. This is not a situation that I can turn a blind eye to anymore. I cannot just ignore the agony of those who are dying; I am now forced to face this problem because I am a part of it, too. As my selfish mindset slowly begins to unravel in front of my very eyes, a harrowing guilt settles deep within my heart.

I despise my ignorance.

"Father showed me once," Anita continues, "He told me that if anything were to ever happen to us...there's a secret exit that can protect us. You were still so young, so that's probably why he didn't tell you..."

It did make sense; Anita always seemed to have a closer relationship with Father, anyway.

A low crackling noise unhurriedly develops in the background, but it results into a loud popping soon after. This is followed by a high-pitched shriek and a splurge of light. A familiar set of hands roughly pushes onto me suddenly, and I feel myself fall backwards. I look to see Anita; she then grabs onto the collar of my shirt and yanks me onto my feet, dragging me along with her as she takes to running again. I am too disorientated to resist.

The all too familiar smell of burning chemicals reaches my nostrils, and I quietly look over to the side to confirm my suspicions, observing the nonstop proliferation of persistent flames engulfing the air. Tufts of smoke obscure my vision, but it is obvious that a building has caught on fire somewhere. Luminous streaks of orange and yellow ascend into the atmosphere, filling up the sky slowly, and the clusters of heat swirl about and tickle the surface of my skin.

I cannot even begin to fathom the fact that these weapons are being used on humans. If there are supposedly so many altercations occurring in the world above, with creatures much larger and impactful than ourselves, then these people should not be focusing their intent to kill on us undergrounders. But of course, people do whatever they feel is necessary to remain in power and thus remain superior to those below them.

The only thing I can do in this moment is continue to faithfully follow Anita's footsteps.

"There!" She lifts a soot-covered finger to point at a brick wall that stands about ten meters ahead of us. "Do you see the protrusion? The circle?" She remains facing forward, but her voice is loud and clear. I strain my eyes past the smoke that continues to climb up the sky and locate the wall that my sister is referring to. I soon distinguish the faint protrusion of bricks in the shape of a circle in the center of the building's surface.

I respond with a confident "Ye--" but feel a gusty force knock the wind out of me before I can finish my statement. The pressure of the force leads me to believe that it is a bomb of sorts that was seized by the military police. Instead of running like I once was, I am now grasping for air as I helplessly fly across the region. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around my head and brace for the impact that is to come.

The sensation of a brick wall slamming into me goes into full effect, and I am completely devoid of oxygen. I hit the ground, only after barely realizing that I stopped soaring through the air. Anita is nowhere to be seen, and the smog that lingers around me does not help in the least bit. Despite the aching sensation that plunges into my back, I force myself to crawl on all fours again, pulling myself up to find her.

Tears cling to the cuts that garnish my cheeks. My body lies low to the ground; that is seemingly the easiest way to see past the smoke while also avoiding arbitrary bullets. I cough and choke on my own breath repeatedly, but after a couple of minutes of constant searching for my sister, I realize that she is nowhere in the area.

If I was Anita, where would I go?

...

The exit. She would meet me at the secret exit.

I steadily crawl to the building. My knees scrape against the debris that is plastered to the ground, and my heart aches with a restless desperation. At any moment, I could be dead. On all levels except physical, I will be gone. That is already the case with the majority of the people who inhabit this city. The only advantage I have at this time is the smoke that provides a sort of curtain that masks my view from the military police. I can only hope that it will continue to do so.

Upon reaching a ladder that decorates the side of the wall, I lift my right hand onto the first rung. The rust that coats the rough surface pricks against my palms, but the unfamiliar frigid sensation of the metal seems to overpower that. Sluggishly, I pull myself up. Rung by rung, step by step, I endure the pain as I repeatedly tell myself that this excruciating feeling will only be temporary. If I do not continue forth, my condition will instead deteriorate. The protrusion appears somewhat more visible after that handmade bomb went off close by, making it easier for me to commit to greeting its entrance.

As the ladder comes to an end and my body fixes itself to be more upright, a less blurred view of the city becomes visible to me. The colors that stick out the most are prominent pools of brown and red; brown for the jackets of the military police and red for the blood of the deceased. The discourse has died down, and the only bodies that remain standing are those in uniforms that clutch onto large rifles. Before I can scan the area any further, I remind myself that I am still vulnerable and must find a safe place to reside in.

I swing my left leg over and slide myself to the edge of the ladder so that only one side of my body is using it for balance. The other side dangles freely as I try to place myself at an angle so that I can jump into the constricted area Anita had been leading me to. There is a floor that I plan to land on, but I do not necessarily know if it is sturdy enough to hold the brunt of my weight with my descent at such a high speed. But then again, this is my only option right now.

I decide to count to three in order to prepare myself for entrance, though I could argue that it is not enough time for me to acknowledge the pain that is to come. Maybe that is for the better, though.

One...

Two...

Thr...

Nope.

Instead of letting go of the ladder rung like I was supposed to, I find myself scrunching my eyes shut and clasping onto it even tighter to the point where my knuckles begin to turn white. Fear must be mocking me at my foolish act right now. The height I am currently at is not even the problem; actually, it is the unexpected that scares me, what is to come once I land on the other side, or even, once I do not land.

Another high-pitched shriek sounds to my right, followed by yet another splurge of light. The impact rattles the ladder, causing one end of it to become unhinged. My weight on it further leads it to tip a great deal to one side, and the whole thing begins to topple over. I panic. Images flash before me like shuttered frames, slow motion films glazing across my eyes: a plummeting ladder, my wobbling legs, dancing flames...

I force myself to count again.

One...

Two...

Three...

I jump as far as I can into the open circle because it is always better to jump farther up the goal than shorter of the goal at hand. My body clumsily hits the metal surface, and I sense a ball of pain shoot up my legs and all the way up to my neck, rebounding against my other limbs. I lay on the floor and close my eyes for a moment to let the coldness subdue the throbbing, just one moment to catch my breath...

I see him. He gingerly watches me from a distance. His skinless fingers relax into his lap as he drums them along his thigh, enveloped in his black cloak, an impeccable match to his soul. Authentic eyes that could claw into my own whenever he pleases, tearing away at my memories, crippling them. I see him, and he sees me. And when he feels it is time to do so, he will leisurely rise from his general seat upon a building's roof and deliberately stride towards me, guiding me into an eternal slumber. But I cannot let him. There is something that is stopping him from doing so.

Anita.

My vision stirs once again as I open my eyes in a hurry, forcing my stiff body to stand up. The enclosed area appears to be like a secret tunnel; dark, grimy, and moist. But nonetheless, it is concealed, and I feel safe. I look down the full length of it, but Anita is not there. My feet pull forward, and I impassively consume the sound of my footsteps reverberating against the tunnel's full circumference. Short, rapid breaths echo in the congested area, every noise, each sigh and cough and step, amplifying in volume the longer I walk. Upon approaching what can be identified as the center of the tunnel, I realize that Anita's whereabouts are still undetermined. That is, until I look back towards the entrance from which I came and discern her glistening pink sweater shining against the dim lights outside. Her figure is emphasized for me by the circular exit, like a celebrity in the spotlight.

"Ani--"

My voice abruptly becomes stifled. Her name cannot be called, for the chemicals that mingle with the thick air refrain my throat from making any noise. So I begin running. I run back the entirety of the tunnel, tripping once or twice over my own feet every so often. But I get right back up; the adrenaline gradually returns to my body and occludes the aching that inhabited it. She is vigilantly making her way through the street. I wish to shout her name to let her know that I am here, but if I were to open my mouth even the slightest, suffocation would without a doubt triumph. But she is coming in this direction.

She is coming.

This alleviates my anxiety to an extent, but still, it is like watching the fox chase the rabbit. There is really no knowing of who will prevail in such a circumstance; it is all dependent on the environment and the individual. I make sure to keep both of my eyes on her in order to keep track of her every move.

But she is suddenly grabbed.

My eyes broaden. I run faster. The tunnel has seemingly gotten longer, like every step I take contributes nothing to my getting closer to her.

The man who grabbed her is clad in the military police uniform: a white hoodie shirt with strings attached at the front, off-white pants with brown straps placed in various directions, a brown jacket with the unicorn embellishment on the breast pocket, tall, brown boots, and a signature sneer on his stubbled face. His dark brown hair lies sprawled across the top of his scalp messily, grease pushing it down as it falls over one side of his face. One arm wraps across Anita's neck. The crook of his elbow is pressed against the front while his fist makes contact with the back. This cuts off a great deal of circulation for her. With his other free hand, the man grabs the rifle that is propped by his side.

"No..." I trip, tumbling several feet forward and mistakenly bashing my kneecap into the metal floor.

Anita puts up a fight, though. She takes her own hands and grips onto the man's flexed arm, using it to pull herself up and kick both of her feet backwards, making an intense contact with his leg. He flinches slightly, but that is about all. In fact, this only provokes him further. Taking the grip of his rifle, he whacks it across her face, and she falls to the ground.

"Anita..." I claw at the metal in the hopes of finding any indent I can so that I can pull myself closer to the entrance.

She struggles to get up and falls back again, clamping at the side of her mouth, blood spilling onto her shirt and drenching her hand. The man meanders up to her with his weapon, taking his sweet time with his actions. When he arrives, he comfortably lifts the barrel and plants it against her forehead. Anita's head sways in a daze.

"Don't..." I reach my hand out.

He utters a slew of words to her, but I cannot read his lips nor hear what interrogation is being exchanged between the two. But the look on his face tells me that he is taunting her. I witness Anita grab onto the rifle as she shoves it away from her face, getting up onto her feet soon after.

"Wh..." My eyes lighten. There is hope.

But then a gust of heavy smoke from outside blows across the entrance and obscures my entire view of the scene that is unfolding. Anita, once again, is out of my sight.

A staccatoed bang resounds painfully against my eardrums. Then, a scream so familiar cries out.

I instantly stand onto two feet and stumble to the edge of the space. I claw at the air in a futile attempt at forcing the smog away.

Another bang goes off. The screaming stops. The smoke is everlasting. It shrouds my view. The walls close in on me, moving closer, briskly. Stifled sobs break from my throat. I feel asphyxiated. Strangled.

I bump into something. It is not a wall.

A brute force strikes my temple.

Now, it is my turn to fall.

My body hits the floor, the coldness latching onto the backs of my legs.

I roll onto my back, and I open my eyes. Tears slip down from the corners and trail my earlobes. A cloaked figure can be distinguished. Hooded blue eyes glare into my own. No remorse is held in them. They tower above my fallen form and slowly remove a blade from its sheath. They point it at my neck. I reflexively cough out in response. In the process, my collarbone inclines outward slightly, and the blade punctures my skin, relinquishing blood.

It seems that the weak will always be weak.

The caterpillar will always be consumed by the spider. The rose will always be plucked by the small child. The superior one will always belittle the inferior.

Is that the way it will always be?

Will anyone ever get to hear our voices?

So many books remain unread, so many perspectives remain unlistened to, so many people remain unmet.

So many ways for saving the world...remain unvoiced.

All of it...

Whisked away before my eyes.

I presume this man to be a part of the military police; he wears the same tall, brown boots and off-white pants, but I cannot describe his shirt, for the green cape that he dresses himself in flaps about his statured form and encompasses his torso. But this cape displays a different symbol than that of the other policemen that were witnessed. Rather than a green unicorn with a voluminous, white mane, it flashes a delicate pair of wings: one side a dull blue, the other a vibrant white.

I find it to be quite pretty. Alluring, even.

This image seems to be the last one that my mind is able to grasp onto before I watch this figure of a man carelessly withdraw his blade from my throat, lift his foot with utmost force, and slam it against my temple one final time.

 


	5. Take It Or Leave It

My eyelids feel heavy. I cannot bring myself to lift them up, for they are being weighed down by my overly lethargic state of mind. But it seems my temporary slumber has been put to an end as I hear the suppressed jingling of metal chains beside me, and I eventually feel compelled to flutter my eyes open, taking note of what lies in front of me. I allow them to drift over the various shadows that cling to the walls and floor and attempt to distinguish what objects are placed throughout the cramped space I currently reside in.

Aside from a single, broken lamppost that awkwardly hangs from a hook protruding from the wall adjacent to myself, its entirety is submerged in eternal darkness. There is an occasional dull glimmer that casts a faint glow across the floor whenever the lone candle inside flickers with an unexpected exuberance.

There is not much to see.

I tilt my head back, only to find myself face to face with another wall. The silky cobwebs that scatter the surface of it are a sure sign of its desertion. I inattentively inhale the stench of corrosion and decay mixed with that of rusted metal. It smells a bit like a jail cell.

That would most likely explain why I am surrounded by bars.

A jittery movement catches my attention but upon turning my head, I realize that it is only a companionless spider nestling in for the night.

A swarming headache begins to buzz near the back of my cranium, only to singe through my eyelids and leave my vision clouded, like an opaque slab of material has been draped over them. The rest of my body reciprocates this exact feeling, except they are nerveless, fully insensible and paralytic to the brisk sensation of the cold floor coddling my legs.

I swallow with difficulty, cringing at the burning sensation the aftertaste leaves in the back of my throat. To receive even the tiniest sliver of water right now would be enough to satisfy my quenching thirst, and I could maybe, just maybe, feel a little bit of my strength coming back to me. But instead, I am only mocked by the repetitive smacking of pitiful droplets slipping from a drain pipe and onto the ground somewhere in the far distance.

"Oi, where the hell are we?"

I jerk my head up at the familiarity of actual words, darting my eyes every which way in order to determine where the source of the noise is coming from. I estimate it to be about fifteen yards across from me, potentially in a cell like my own. This masculinesque voice speaks again.

"Hey, is anybody in here?"

I pull my feet back and wrap my arms around my knees, then deliberately scoot over in my cell to get a better scope of what exactly lies in this room now that I am closer to the glowering light. The clanking from my chains echoes, but I do not pay any mind to it. Once my body is close enough to the doorway, I am better able to take in my surroundings.

"I heard chains over there! Somebody else is in here, ain't you?"

Red. I am covered in red. My attire is threadbare and frayed, pants ripped in a curved line from the hem and up to my thigh, shirt spotted with holes and tears at the sleeve, exposing one of my shoulders. Dried blood overlays the material and is smeared along my skin. Splatters, patches, and streaks. Perhaps, it is my own blood. Or maybe it is of those who ran alongside me as we ineffectively swerved bullets and flames. It could even be Anita's.

Anita.

My breathing hitches in my throat.

"I swear once I find out who's ignoring me over there, you'll be wishing that we were kept chained up the second I lay my hands on you."

My tears arrive silently. I tug harder onto my knees and bury my head into the crook of my arms.

"Sir..." This time, it is a woman who talks. Her soothing tone acknowledges the man, "What's going on?"

It appears that we are not the only two in this room. That means there must be more.

"That's what I wanna know, woman. Why the hell am I tied to handcuffs in this damned cellar? What? Did those asshole policemen not find it satisfying enough to just kill me right then and there once they knocked me out? They must be waiting for the perfect moment...so that they can watch me suffer..."

"Ah, are you an undergrounder as well?"

So soothing, like Mother's voice.

"Why should I tell you?"

She assures him, "Because I am, too."

The man shifts in his position. "Say it ain't so..."

A brooding silence ensues for several minutes, save for the tugging of chains and sniffling of noses in cause of the crisp atmosphere. But the man eventually points out, "Well, then, how many of us are there?"

The woman replies, "I'm not sure. My son is here with me, though. Why didn't they separate him from me? What are they going to do to him?" A dreadful angst guides her voice.

There is an unexplainable contentment in having a certain numbness hug one's body as tears run down their face. It is almost comforting; there is no pain to accompany each lone droplet, only a desensitizing anesthesia to mitigate any sentiment that attempts to arouse from their thoughts. My tears continue to spill freely.

A third voice emerges. "OI, GET US OUT OF HERE." A violent rattling of metal clashing together replaces the once tranquil aura of the room. "I HAVE TO PISS."

"Shut up," the first man growls, "if you didn't notice, we're trying to figure out what the hell is going on."

"Like it matters, they're just gonna kill us off, anyway."

"Don't you have the slightest of hope?"

"This is the military police we're talking about. It's not some half-assed fairytale, so get a grip on realit--"

"Mama..." The frenzied cacophony is quickly suspended by a low whimper. A child croaks out, "Mama, make it stop..."

The woman from earlier can be heard repositioning herself as she pulls her son closer to her and rocks him back and forth with her motherly touch. He sobs in return.

Me, too, child. Me, too.

I cautiously lift my head from its placement upon my knees and turn it to face the doorway of my cell, looking past the bars of it for the first time. I spot the two family members embracing each other a few yards across from me. The candle casts a lustless light on them. Their shadows tremble in uneven proportions across the floor. They are the only ones who can easily be seen at this time, for the rest of us are swathed in cosmic darkness.

Other individuals soon begin to stir from sleep. A question is asked here or there, and the response is always the same.

"I don't know."

Eventually, all that is left is a tense quietude. At least, until an unfamiliar voice perforates it.

"Yes, precisely."

It is muffled, but it seems to have derived from behind a door, a door that is not within my field of vision, probably at the base of a long, winding hallway. A bothersome creaking echoes from all the way down the corridor, maneuvering past a multitude of lefts and rights until it finally reaches my ears. This is followed by a plethora of light, irradiated and candescent, dispersing and becoming less narrow as a door continues to be pushed open.

Whatever the military police's unyielding hearts desire is what they will gracefully receive. Implacable killers with savage intentions, such a deadly combination for a group of people with so much power at the tips of their blood-stained fingers.

The door closes with force, not quite a slam, but blatantly nonetheless. Two sets of undisturbed footsteps shuffle against the dreary canvas of the cellar, grinding through my eardrums in volumes that are only tangible to the ear. Accompanying the footsteps are two aloof shadows, an ample variation between them in both length and build.

"I find this to be the most suitable approach to our current set of circumstances."

I do not recognize the voice, but its level headed tone leads me to believe that this is a man of great power, someone who knows what he is doing. It irks me in a sense. Untroubled yet hospitable. People like that are never to be trusted. It is as if he already knows that the sequence of events to come will already play out in his favor.

"You always have a back up plan, don't you, Erwin?"

A new voice. Authoritative nonetheless, but there is some underlying factor to it that makes it distinctive to that of the first man.

Boredom, perhaps.

The two men enter the room. And straightaway, I am able to see everything much clearer now. Not mentally, but physically.

Open wounds dress these victims' faces, dirt embedded in their garments. Black and blue hues paint their skin. A mother cradles her son's bleeding head onto her lap, leaving a puddle of blood on her elongated skirt. Multiple men have deep lacerations carving into their collarbones or stomachs, and a couple of them have malformed appendages; a twisted leg here, a limp arm there. Scary. I most likely appear the same way to them, though. Some continue to lay in the exact position they were in at the very beginning of these events. Their chests do not rise or fall, eyes unblinking.

Impulsively, I search for a pink sweater. My eyes sweep the room but are not met with what they desire to see. The anchor that ties itself to my heart yanks forcefully on it, pulling it down further, sinking.

Why do I continue to hold onto hope when it has shown me nothing but hostility?

This first man is quite tall, leaning past six feet tall. His blond hair is slicked back, emphasizing his sharp facial structure. Thick, bushy eyebrows give way to piercing blue eyes, eyes that can send an icy chill down one's spine with a single glance, stabbing through pupils like honed daggers. I decide it best to avoid eye contact with him.

"Do you all know why you're here?" Loosely pacing the room, this strange blond man admires the space around him as he firmly awaits a response from these underground dwellers. Ultimately, he approaches a stop in front of somebody's cell door, raising a single eyebrow at them. "Can you take a guess for me, young woman?"

The woman he stands beside scoffs at him. "What makes you think you deserve an answer?" She kicks a piece of wall that sits in front of her. It rolls out of her reach, skipping across the floor in a succession of small bounces. "You piece of shit soldiers really do think that you're better than the rest of us, huh?"

He does not lash out. Rather, he remains patient as he watches her attentively, almost as if he actually cares about what she is to say next.

"Erwin, was it? I'll keep that in mind as you and your short-stack friend over there interrogate us. What are you gonna do, beat us and kill us off slowly, one by one?"

"With all of that talking back, I wouldn't mind if that were the case." This time, it is the other man who speaks. He is much shorter than the first and has straight, black hair that hangs over particular sections of his face. After contributing his two cents, he comfortably takes to the wall and stands with his back up against it, keeping his arms crossed tightly over his chest while the man referred to as Erwin continues his lengthy probing.

"If I'm not mistaken, I believe it's my turn to ask questions here." He adjusts his shirt collar slightly, waiting for a calmness to succeed the room before he goes on.

"The incursion of the underground took place several days ago and was said to have successfully ended the lives of every individual living there."

His constant implementation of euphemisms tires me, so I inadvertently begin to tune out his words. Successfully ended the lives of? Did he mean to say killed? Murdered? Slaughtered? Blades digging into throats or bullets slicing through fear-ridden hearts? Families being separated, children being raped before death, animals being abused and pummeled? By chance, maybe that is the message he wishes to convey.

"These events were indeed unfortunate. People who didn't have to die did. It's a shame that the military police executed such an abominable act."

"You damned military police killed my daughter. You pigs were the ones who m--"

The man leaning against the wall suddenly interrupts, "Oi, don't compare us to those sadistic bastards."

Erwin coughs to bring all attention back to him prior to any turmoil. "My apologies. It was a bit insincere of me to not introduce myself beforehand." He clears his throat. "Hello. My name is Erwin Smith, and I am the thirteenth commander of the Survey Corps."

Befuddled murmurs arise from the group.

"I would like to clear up any confusion you all may have. The Military Police and the Survey Corps are two of the three branches that occupy the military. We do not associate directly with them. While they reside on the innermost wall and lavish in restfulness with our king, we are the ones who go on excursions outside of the walls. To put it simply, we fight to save humanity." A long pause. Then, "We are on your side."

I look up to meet his gaze. His eyes transfix onto my own. I shiver.

"What happened in the underground that day was unacceptable. You were all granted with food and shelter, and they wanted to take that away. They were losing a lot of their own resources, so they took it upon themselves to take advantage of you all. Unfortunately, this led to a mass genocide of sorts. But that was not our doing. I'm stating this because I need you all to be aware of the fact that again, we are on your side."

_We are on your side._

"This man over here," Erwin explains as he gestures to the black-haired man, "is my subordinate, Levi. He is the captain of the Survey Corps, and I put my full trust in him." The captain named Levi does not reply. He only continues to stare blankly ahead of him, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Those of you that are here right now, tied up to chains in this underground room, are the lucky ones. You may not feel that that is the case, but I can assure you that it is. Before you begin to ask any questions, let me inform you of why that is."

Commander Erwin walks forward. And with a dramatic effect, he pauses. But when he finally speaks again, his voice is booming.

"You are the remaining survivors of the underground."

The silence that fills the atmosphere is the most prominent thus far.

I half-heartedly look around the room. I once again search for a pink sweater, but there are only ten people in total: a mother and her son, two more children who lay lifeless in their cells, an older teenage boy, two grown men, a young woman, an elder, and myself.

No pink sweater.

The numbness of my body subsides temporarily, and the anchor attached to my heart faithfully yanks again. I cough, clutching onto my chest from the immense pressure.

"I'm sure that you're all a bit disorientated at this moment. You may be wondering what to do from here. What is going to happen to you? Where will you go? How will you survive?" He inhales deeply before saying, "Well, the Survey Corps is here to help you."

The man standing against the wall cuts him off. "Oi, stop stalling and get to the point already." Whatever patience the captain once held has dissipated.

Commander Erwin lowers his head and chuckles briefly. "Yes, Levi. I'm getting there." He brings his arms behind his back and casually intertwines his fingers together, glancing at everybody in the room once or twice. But he eventually gets to the point, expressing a small smile as he does so.

"In order to make up for the carelessness of the military police's actions, I would like to invite you all to become a part of the Survey Corps."

Before anybody can interrupt, he quickly goes on, "As a faithful member of the Survey Corps, you will be provided with food, water, and shelter. All I ask of you in return is to dedicate your hearts to mankind."

I listen intently but with no strong desire. Others appear to feel differently, though. One of the older men from earlier scowls at him and barks, "This is a trick. It has to be. Listen, people. I've heard about the Survey Corps. They go outside the walls and kill Titans. Most of their men come back dead after every expedition. It ain't worth it...They're just using us for numbers. Isn't that right, Commander Erwin?" His last words drip with satire.

"It is indeed true that we are in a desperate need for numbers. I will tell you right now that the mortality rate for new recruits going on their first expedition is about fifty percent. But if you make it past that, you will be considered a superior soldier with a high survival rate."

"Well, I don't wanna die."

"Then don't," he simply answers.

The undergrounder clenches his teeth. "I ain't signing up for your silly game."

"That's perfectly alright," the commander counters, "but then where will you go from here?"

I fumble with the hem of my shirt.

Erwin purses his lips solemnly. "All that's left of the underground is rubble and ashes. If you would like to go back, I will not stop you. But you have a higher chance of dying there than you do as a soldier in the Survey Corps. What will you do then?"

There is no reply.

"This is not to mention that if you were to go off on your own somewhere else, there is no predicting what will happen. The military police could still find you, and I could make a safe bet that they won't be quite happy to see an individual from the underground alive. The reason that you are here right now is because the Survey Corps came to your city as they were killing your people, saving whoever was left. We are the ones who brought you here. We are the ones who kept you alive. They, on the other hand, will not be as merciful. What will you do then?"

I allow my face to rest between my knees again.

He steps forward. "Everybody from the underground is marked. There is a scar that runs down your shoulder blades. From the moment you were first thrust upon your city, they marked you. You can pretend that you're not from the underground all you want but the second a policeman distinguishes that scar...What will you do then?"

I reach over my shoulder and graze my fingertips down the bottom of my neck, feeling the groove of the scar that trails my shoulder blades, the scar that ties me down to this city. I flinch at the memory. I find the placement to be slightly ironic in a sense; it is like a pair of wings has been ripped from my back, oppressing me from my freedoms, and all that remains is a scar at the location where those delicate wings were once attached.

_What will you do then?_

It seems that the man does not have a coherent answer for the commander because he ends up releasing his frustrations in violence instead. In the time that Erwin was speaking, he must have devised a plan to get himself out since he now holds a blade in his hand. His wrists remain shackled, but he hastily attempts to use it like a saw in order to break the chain off.

"I'll kill you," he seethes, "both you and your petty subordinate." Tears slip from the corners of his eyes, and they are bloodshot. He grits his teeth in disgust, repeating his threats in desperate mumbles.

Captain Levi gets up from his spot against the wall and swiftly makes his way over to this indignant man. The blade that the man from the underground holds trembles in his hands as he lifts it up and points it in Levi's direction.

"Don't you dare come any closer or else I'll kill you," he cries out.

But the captain continues closer and within seconds, he swings his leg across the man's wrist, causing him to writhe in pain and lose grasp of the blade. Levi subsequently pulls his foot back and kicks him sharply in the head, leaving his face even more bloody than before. Old wounds are reopened, but he shows no remorse.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Levi's words are harsh but expressionless, devoid of any emotion.

The blade flies across the room, slamming against the ground and skidding along the full length of the floor until it crashes into the doorway of my cell. I jump slightly at the loud noise. Everybody's attention shifts to my cellar for a brief moment, but only so they can see where the weapon had landed. Their attention then returns to the commander. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground.

"My daughter," the bloodied man wails quietly, "she's dead..." He lays on his side within his cell, cradling himself in the corner as blood continues to ooze from his wounds.

Physical pain will almost always heal, but the pain of losing a loved one is a weight that will never be lifted from one's shoulders. It is a recurring pain, a flower that merely survives in an environment where it has no desire to live; it blooms, only to wilt constantly. A never-ending cycle of pain and guilt.

My heart breaks for him.

The captain ambles up to my cell and carefully picks up the blade, inspecting the dirty metal with cautious hands. He scrunches his face at it.

"Tch."

My thoughts wander as Erwin begins talking again.

Humans hold so much potential, yet they are only driven by three things.

Money.

Pleasure.

And power.

Why is that?

Even if it means throwing one's burdens onto somebody else's shoulders, they still do it. Even if it means allowing the world to fall apart. It is frustrating to think about. Puzzle pieces assemble themselves in my mind, but they do not fit together. Some parts are missing while others are in the wrong location. My knowledge of the world is punctured with holes and until I am able to learn more, it will stay that way.

There are too many questions.

Why do we only care about ourselves?

Why do we push others down when we should be helping pull them up?

Why do we laugh at other people's attempts at bettering themselves?

One question may be answered, but several more will arrive. That is the way the world works.

Some say ignorance is bliss. It is better to not get involved, they say. Worry about yourself, they say. But no. Ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance will only lead to the destruction of our nation.

This Erwin man is quite peculiar. He differs. He does not seem to be driven by any of these things. If that is the case, then what is he driven by? I glance over at him.

"I will give you some time to think this decision over. I understand that it's a lot of information to take in. But I look forward to seeing you grow into dedicated soldiers." With that, he and his subordinate exit the room, leaving us to our thoughts.

The distressed man's loud whimpering drowns out my own quiet crying. The temporary storage of my emotions has washed back over me like a dam that has finally been pushed beyond its holding capacity.

Anita, you are not here.

And I am sorry.

You never got to experience the vivid life of freedom you desired to reach for so long. It was ruthlessly taken away from you. I do not know what will happen to you at this point. But maybe now...

Maybe now you can soar across that breathtakingly beautiful sky and fly high like a dazzling angel.

Anita, can you see the world from where you are right now? No more tears. No more blood. No more fighting. No more throwing away your dignity in order to stay alive.

But still, I did not save you.

And I will never be able to live that down.

These shackles on my wrists will always be a reminder of that. Even once they are physically removed with a key, they will still be there. They will encumber me.

Forever.

 


	6. Wings

_A patch of grass can always be found sprouting somewhere between the cracks of a sidewalk despite mankind's efforts in eradicating Mother Nature's beauty as they construct their own properties on top of her. In this same way, a gentle mother can be found raising her children to be good-hearted citizens in between the cracks of the broken walls of her home despite living in an environment surrounded by greed and violence._

_Mothers will always prevail._

_No matter how many times man may try to alter the direction of her course._

_Two little girls sit cross-legged in the center of their makeshift living room floor, engaging in an intense game of rock, paper, scissors. They both throw forth a paper, sigh, lean forward with even more anticipation than before, and throw again. This time, the older girl reveals a rock, the other a scissors._

_"I win," the older one boasts, "therefore, I get to be the Titan."_

_The younger one sinks into her spot on the floor, pouting. "Not fair," she whines, "I wanted to be the Titan."_

_This is one of their favorite games to play. One person takes to being the Titan, and the other is a civilian that has to do their best to avoid it at all costs. It always seems to end in the civilian succumbing to the ferocity of the beast. The games that these little kids are able to fabricate from the depths of their imagination never fail to amuse, even with their lack of privilege and abundance of oppression in cause of this perilous city._

_"I don't think that life is supposed to be fair, so you better get to running. But don't worry, Maika. I'll be nice and count to five before I try to eat you. One..."_

_"Okay, Anita! I'm going, I'm going!" The girl who goes by Maika lifts herself from the floor and scampers away from her sister, the padding of her feet echoing off of the walls as she does so._

_Why is it that they prefer to be the Titan over the civilian?_

_"Two..."_

_Maika reaches a corner of the room, snatches a sheer blanket that litters the ground, and envelops herself inside of it. She genuinely believes that she will never be found here._

_Is it because the Titan always wins?_

_"Three..."_

_She giggles within the material, instantly cupping her hand over her mouth right after. Her cover has almost been blown._

_Or is it because they thrive off of the power that the beast holds?_

_"Four..."_

_Peeking through the edge of the blanket, little Maika spots her sister in the center of the room still, shielding her eyes with pudgy fingers as she brings her counting to an end._

_It is an inherent desire._

_"Five!"_

_The older girl removes her hands from her face and scans the living room with watchful eyes until they land upon a younger girl who tries desperately to conceal herself inside of a blanket._

_"Gotcha," she snickers._

_Tiptoeing her way across the room, Anita cannot help but smirk as she closes in on her poor little sister. When she is but a mere two feet away, she raises her hands and spreads her tiny fingers apart like claws._

_"Rawrrr!"_

_She embraces her sister with wide arms, though it is more like a bear hug than a Titan seeking to devour the fresh taste of human flesh. Maika releases what can be perceived as the result between a scream and a laugh but regardless, she eagerly attempts to crawl away. Bringing herself to her knees, the young child squirms away from the confines of her blanket and runs._

_But this Titan is quite experienced. Anita hurriedly trails after her and grabs onto her lower leg, causing the small girl to plummet to the ground. Little Maika claws at the floorboards, but Anita only continues to pull her leg back._

_The Titan wins once again._

_"Any last words?" She taunts, bringing her face closer to her sister's foot as she opens her mouth, pretending to take a bite out of her. But before the younger one is able to express her thoughts, a tender voice disrupts their innocent play-fighting._

_"Anita. Maika. We're going to be heading out soon." Their mother has suddenly appeared in the doorway. Nodding her head towards the younger one, she adds, "Anita, help your sister get dressed. It will be a long walk, so prepare yourselves as best you can. Alright?" She smiles at the two, but something seems off. This smile lacks sincerity; it wavers at the corners of her cracked lips. Fortunately, though, to the mother's relief, neither child notices._

_There Mother goes again. She prevails above all else._

_"Yes, Mama!" They voice in unison._

_Anita makes her way over to a nearby corner of the room and sorts through the paltry piles of clothes that sit there. She finds a long skirt that belongs to their mother that is a bit too large for Maika's size, but she decides to use it as a dress on her, wrapping it around her entire torso and abdomen. She locates another skirt and dresses herself the same way, for this is one of the only methods they can use to protect themselves from the frigid air that lounges at night._

_"Ready to go, Mai?" Anita questions._

_Maika heartily nods her head and eagerly heads to the door that leads to the outside world._

_"Wait for Mama!" The older one yells as she runs to catch up to her._

_The two children showcase a profound excitement as they make their way across the underground city, mother in between the two, clasping onto both of their hands tightly. Maika continues to be oblivious. However, Anita gradually begins to fit pieces together. Walks around the city are a rare occurrence. The danger that lurks around every corner outweighs that of the potential tranquility a quiet stroll could provide. If that is the case, then what is their mother thinking?_

_There must be some ulterior motive at play._

_To push her skeptical feelings away, Anita focuses on squeezing her mother's hand even tighter. In turn, her mother peers down at her and reassures her daughter by rubbing her thumb back and forth along the top of her knuckles._

_Once the three individuals have traveled a considerable distance across the city, they arrive in front of an isolated building. There are already multiple people there, both children and adults alike. Exhaustion dresses their faces, but some children scream and clutch onto their mothers' skirts. Warm tears drip down their chubby cheeks in languid streams as they tug at their parents, begging them to take them home. This only makes Anita even more anxious. But Maika pulls on her mother's skirt in a similar manner as the others and looks up at her with curious brown eyes._

_"Mama?"_

_"Hm?" Her mother smiles at the young child, but this time, Anita knows better. The uneasiness that hovers in the older woman's eyes quells that quiet beam of her lips. Her mother is afraid. Afraid of what, though?_

_"Next!"_

_Both children's eyes shift from their mother's to the voice that just spoke. At the front of the group of undergrounders, they discern several men with blades in their hands. They are dressed in uniforms with unicorns stitched to the breast pocket of their jackets. But unicorns are nice. They are our friends._

_Right?_

_"Why are you afraid?" Maika asks. What a silly mother. Unicorns are nothing to be afraid of._

_Mama Kuhn exhales a shaky breath but keeps her eyes facing forward. If she is to lock eyes with either of her children, she knows she will break down in tears. She swallows the saliva that coats the inside of her mouth, then with all of her courage, stiffly comments, "I'm not afraid." While her words are supposed to ease her children's anxieties, she is more so trying to ease her own._

_A child's piercing scream causes Maika to clamp her hands over her ears. She swivels to face a young girl who stands at the front of the line. One man grabs her and holds her down forcefully while another inches up to her with a clean blade. She squirms and squirms and squirms, but this is to no avail. To get the red-haired girl to stop moving around so much, the burly man who restrains her slaps her across the face harshly. A burning red in the shape of a hand immediately takes shape on her pale cheek. Maika trembles._

_But before she is able to ask her mother any further questions, Mama Kuhn kneels down to the two girls and carefully explains, "Whatever happens, I need you both to stay calm. All members of the underground have been instructed to come here on behalf of the military police, otherwise we are to be kil--" She stops herself in time and instead says, "I mean...we will be in big trouble. Do you understand?"_

_The clueless daughter chirps, "The military police! They have unicorns on their clothes! Are they unicorn keepers? Do we get to see their unicorns?"_

_Her mother sighs a somber sigh. "I'm afraid that these men don't own any unic--"_

_"Yes, Mai," Anita cuts in, "they are unicorn keepers." She then glances at her mother and nods her head subtly._

_"Really?!" She begins to jog towards them._

_"Wait, Mai." Anita briskly grabs her wrist. "In order to see them, you have to be calm and stay still. That's the only way."_

_She sulks in her spot._

_"Oh."_

_Through the eyes of a child, there only lays a creative mind and an enthusiastic heart. The more horrid emotions, such as detestation and animosity, are essentially non-existent within these pure forms, for they have yet to be exposed to the cruelty that the people in this world have materialized for themselves. And maybe that is for the better._

_As the group of three continues to close in to the front of the line, the mother's fidgeting of the hands becomes more notable. But she makes sure her head stays poised. She constantly tells herself that this will be better in the long run. This is for her children. For her children..._

_In front of her, individuals woefully step up to these superior men, allowing themselves to bend to their every will. Screams fill the cold night air as military policemen take their clean knives and carve a straight line down between the shoulder blades of these underground dwellers._

_"Make sure that it's deep enough to leave a scar, alright? But don't kill 'em. And bandage 'em up after you're done. This is how we'll keep tabs on who's from the underground and who's not in case they ever try to escape."_

_"Yes, Chief!" Three men affirm simultaneously._

_Anita can sense her palms collecting sweat as moisture forms on the surface of them at an exponentially increasing rate. The beating of her heart comes in rapid thuds that push onto her chest, restricting her of airflow. And little Maika soon takes notice of this. So she grabs onto the older girl's hand and confidently states, "Don't worry, Anita. I think that they're maybe trying to turn us into unicorns. Well, not unicorns. But they're giving us wings. That mark that goes down our back...I think it's to create room for our wings to grow. We'll finally get to be free like the unicorns. Right?"_

_No, my little Maika. These people are slashing at the roots of your potential. They are obstructing your freedom by pinning you down to this city, and they are shooting you down before you are even given the chance to stand up, to fly. They are, in fact, doing quite the opposite of what you think._

_"You're exactly right," Anita steadily replies. She ruffles her sister's hair with a fond affection. Maika grins, but it diminishes soon after._

_"Well, then why does everybody look like they don't want to go up there?"_

_"That's because--"_

_Another man shouts, "Next!"_

_"Look, Anita! I don't know why you guys are so scared, but I'll be brave and go first. Then, you and Mama will see how easy it is."_

_Anita starts to open her mouth, but Maika has already marched up to one of the men._

_"My turn, please!" The small girl grabs a handful of her shortly cropped hair and pulls it to the side so that her shoulder blades can be better exposed._

_"Well, ain't you a little bugger? Don't even know what's coming to you...But that's what makes it all the more exciting, right?" The man snorts. Extracting his blade, he rubs the hem of his shirt against the tip for a few moments before lifting it and angling it towards Maika's back._

_"Maika..." Her mother croaks. She attempts to run forward, but her eldest daughter prevents her from doing so._

_Clutching onto her mother's shirt, Anita objects, "Mama, don't." Her expression is blank, but tears are slowly rolling down her face. "They have to do it, anyway. Just let them." She clenches her teeth to stop her voice from cracking._

_"But--"_

_"No buts. They'll kill us if we don't do it. You and I both know it."_

_A mother can do her best to raise a child to be happy. But at the end of the day, the environment in which that child was raised will always have the ability to shatter that happiness. No matter how hard she may try to create a safe home, to provide a decent education, and to prevent a broken heart, that child will be burdened. They will be scarred. When she sees her child's face every morning and night, it is hard to distinguish the exact moment when that change occurred, when that child started observing the world through a lense of disgust instead of beauty, and when that child started accepting the way of the world instead of trying to change it into something better. And though Anita may be older, she is still a mere adolescent. Since when did she switch out her critical lenses so quickly?_

_That is what the underground does to a person._

_"Tell me, Mama...Why are they doing this to us? Why are they putting scars on our backs?"_

_"Anita..."_

_"The real reason."_

_The mother averts her eyes towards the floor, collecting her thoughts before coming to a sure conclusion. "They want to make sure that citizens of the underground are unable to blend in with the people above. If one of us were to escape this city and go up the stairwell without obtaining our citizenship first, it would be almost impossible to tell where we really came from, if we were from the underground or not. I mean, they could probably tell by our meager appearance and unkempt garments, but that's not really concrete evidence. That's just an assumption. But if they were to leave a physical mark on us, then it would be almost impossible to NOT find us. They could easily check for the mark on our back and confidently determine that we are from the underground. And since that evidence is more concrete, the authorities would more than likely allow them to do as they please with us. From there, all of the power is in their hands. I can only predict what they would do to us then. Nothing good, I imagine."_

_"But I still don't understand." Anita scrunches her eyebrows in confusion, still unable to get a full grasp of her mother's blunt words. "Why must they give us a scar? That's painful. Couldn't they just give us a bracelet that we could never take off? Or give us all the same haircut?" Anita studies her sister intently as she says this. Maika's eyes are clamped shut, and fear hugs her body gently. But still, it is too much. Just too much. Two lone tears accumulate at the corners of the innocent girl's eyes, adorning her lashes with a slight glimmer._

_Her mother answers,"People will unfailingly find a way to pleasure themselves by ruining things that the world deems beautiful."_

_The man who was earlier on referred to as the commander brings down his blade, making fixed contact with the section of sensitive skin between Maika's shoulders. She cries out in pain, twisting her body involuntarily and tensing her fatigued muscles. The hot tears slip from their edge and fall as they disappear into the dirt. Blood trickles in the form of miniature tributaries down her back, the mercury hues smoothing over her once unscathed skin._

_"Mama..." She whimpers._

_Her mother runs forward yet again, but Anita yanks back on her shirt forcefully, causing the mother to stumble back into her daughter, thus leading the two towards a harsh descent to the ground._

_"Mm, I don't think that cut is deep enough, Commander Dok."_

_"Oi, I think you're right. Should I do it again?"_

_"Yeah, just in case, right?"_

_Another stab is placed carefully into her back._

_Maika screams. Her body goes limp._

_"Alright, now you can bandage her." The commander grabs the child as if she were just a stuffed doll to be played with and pushes her into the arms of the other man. "Then send her on her way."_

_"Yes, sir." He takes the girl and turns her onto her back, grabbing a large wad of cotton and gauze to stick to her wound. She stirs slightly; her eyelids deliberately lift themselves from their closed state as she tries to differentiate her surroundings. Upon spotting her mother and older sister, she smiles faintly. The man shoves her to the side to deal with the next individual, and Maika falls to the ground. She lays there quietly, the red from her wound soaking through the bandages instantly, leaving her there in a pool of her own blood. But Maika strenuously pulls herself onto all fours, her elbows and knees trembling from the vigorous stamina it took to do so. Slowly, the young child raises her head to face her family. Little Maika smiles at them yet again, tears falling from her eyes the moment her lips curl up. As the blood continues to saturate her bandages, she softly whispers._

_"Mama, Anita. I told you it would be okay."_

_"..."_

_"I have my wings now."_

_"..."_

_"Are you proud of me?"_

 


	7. Show Me

Erwin Smith is a beguiling man. But perhaps, beguiling is not the correct word to describe him. He is frank with his statements, and everything that he says appears to hold truth to it. Still, I feel deceived in some way. But perhaps, deceived is not the correct word to describe my conflicted emotions, either. He has yet to do such a thing.

Commander, what is your goal?

A pair of stagnant blue eyes suddenly cut into my thoughts and stare right into me, the rest of his face fading into view soon after: the long, pointed nose, the chiseled jawline, and the staple, slicked-back strands of blond hair. I would not be surprised if he could hear my thoughts right now. He really is an unpredictable man.

_We are on your side._

Up until now, somebody has had yet to side with the citizens of the underground. And maybe that is why I feel so reluctant to accept his proposal. The wheels that have spun in the same recurring rotations my entire life have finally decided to take a sharp, fatal turn, and it goes to show that I am not prepared for it. Erwin's intentions are unclear to me at this moment; I am uninformed as to whether they are to benefit only himself or if they are to benefit us undergrounders as well.

Either way, I am going to have to accept this proposal of his. My alternatives are very limited to begin with. As for the remaining undergrounders, a select few felt that their chances of survival when confronting the military police or by going back to the underground would outweigh that of joining the Survey Corps legion. The elder, along with the mother and her injured son, are the ones who decided to do so. The rest, including the teenage boy, the two grown men, and the young woman, were more inclined to partake in the commander's odd proposal as well. But just like myself, they did not have much of a choice in that, either.

This path that we have decided to follow has only two outcomes to it: we will live, or we will die. And for the most part, we are still oblivious on what being a part of the Survey Corps actually entails.

_All I ask of you in return is to dedicate your hearts to mankind._

So what exactly does dedicating one's heart to mankind imply?

Rumors will always be rumors, but I do not think that we will realize the true extent of our acceptances to be soldiers in the Survey Corps until we set foot onto the territory outside of the walls that consists of these so-called expeditions to fight against the Titans. To me, they are still merely imaginary creatures that Anita and I fought to be in our make-believe games of Titan versus Citizen. I do not even have the slightest idea as to what they are really like when it comes to their physical attributes. I can only guess from here what dangers reality has yet to exploit me to.

Realizing that memories involving Anita had filled my mind, a wave of nausea immediately washes over me. The rations of soup and crackers that I was once yearning to consume now remain untouched on the wooden table in front of me. Tiny ripples fan out from the center of the glass bowl as the table is carelessly shaken side to side by the individuals that sit adjacent to myself as they consume their own share of food. I focus my attention on these waves to prevent myself from regurgitating chicken, carrots, and peas.

But the soothing ripples are quickly disturbed by a heavy force smacking against the table. I look up from my spot to see a woman soldier dressed in the Survey Corps uniform glaring at one of the other undergrounders. I believe his name is Eli; he is the young teenage boy who has kept relatively quiet for the duration of our time within these headquarters. The woman sneers at him with gritted teeth and seethes, "Watch where you're going next time, you pathetic bastard." It appears that Eli had accidentally bumped into her arm, which in turn caused her to spill an ounce or two of her rations on the paneled floor.

"I-I-I'm sorry," he stammers in response, "it was an accident, I swear!"

"Oh, trust me, I know. Only people from the underground could do something so stupid as to not even know how to watch which direction they're going."

I push my tongue against the inside of my cheek to refrain from saying anything. Instead, I glance around the room at the other soldiers. Unfortunately, the division that I see is noticeably distinct. The room is lined with rows of rounded, wooden tables, and each one is occupied with people. That is, except for the four tables that are placed around the one that all of us undergrounders sit at. They have yet to be inhabited by anybody, unless we are to include the group that was once sitting there but stood up and left the moment we sat down. It is as if there is some invisible boundary that the others do not dare to cross. They narrow their eyes at us from the outside of this fabricated border, whispering insolent remarks to their fellow comrades.

"They look so underfed; I almost mistook them for skeletons."

"Do they know what real food is?"

"I wonder what it's like to live in such a disgusting city."

"Have they even showered before?"

It seems that ignorance will always accompany the inherencies of privilege.

"Why would the commander even want to risk his life to save them?"

"Not to mention why he would ever choose them to be a part of the Survey Corps of all divisions..."

"Maybe he plans to use them as bait for the Titans so that us better-suited soldiers can have a higher chance at surviving."

It is easy to say that one should not listen to the negativities that spew from another's mouth, but that is all it is. It is easy to say. Actually doing so is another battle in itself, one that is much more demanding. That is because it is not the words we hear that necessarily matter, but it is how we react to them that creates a different story.

It is too late for me, though. At this point in time, my heart has been injected with a depression so numb that every time the fragile organ pulsates, all I am able to feel is a prominent ache. There are no tears anymore to transfer my pain, and there are no words left to express my sorrows. There is only a constant ache that thumps in sync with the beating of my heart. My most profound emotions are locked inside of a metal box that aimlessly trails the clouds, a box whose key fell from the sky and plummeted to the earth the moment Anita left my presence. The key is lost. And my desire to locate it has been lost as well.

"Eli, man, just come and sit down already." One of the older men grabs the meager teen's wrist and pulls him closer to our table, forcing him to sit down. Eli's hands are balled into tight fists, but I can see them begin to relax and loosen as he takes a single, deep breath in.

He nods several times. "Yeah," he mutters, "I'll just sit and eat my food. It will be okay. Thanks, Luis."

"Thatta boy." The male named Luis whacks him lightly on the back in an attempt to reassure him. I identify him as the person who threatened Levi with his blade just yesterday. He is the one who had lost his daughter in the underground massacre. I am relieved that his mood has improved since then. "Otherwise, me and my boy Aldo were gonna have to get involved. Not that I have a problem with that. But at least let me finish this delicious portion of soup first, my brother." In a way, it is comforting to know that a few of the undergrounders have already developed somewhat of a bond. That did not seem to be the case twenty four hours ago.

The soldier who got bumped into curtly comments, "That soup tastes like shit. And it's barely enough to satisfy an empty stomach. You're all disgusting."

Luis locks eyes with the woman. "I might be from the underground, but I don't exactly know what shit tastes like. I'm surprised that you do, though. But I guess it's understandable. It's probably from all of that shit-talking you do."

My eyes flicker to the broad-shouldered man in astonishment. The others at our table burst out laughing at the clever comeback.

"You son of a--"

"But anyway, like I was saying, this soup is delicious. Don't you guys agree?" Luis looks at the rest of us for confirmation.

"Yes!" A few of them manage to affirm in between their hollering. "It really is delicious!"

I peer down at my soup and let out a small laugh. At that moment, the crude glares and the antagonistic comments have become a blur to me. They are forgotten.

Because those who have been thrown into a world that has yet to accept them will always find a way to locate tranquility within the confines of their oppression.

Humans.

Such a cruel but beautiful concept.

* * *

 

"We have allotted a time frame of precisely twenty four hours for the five of you to accommodate yourselves. I assume that within that time, you were able to wrap your wounds, eat, shower, and get a decent amount of sleep, along with put on a new set of clothes and mentally prepare yourselves to be dedicated members of the Survey Corps. Because right now, I am about to test your abilities."

Erwin Smith stands strictly upright in front of a considerably large forest as he faces the rest of us. He confidently wears his uniform, the insignia of the Wings of Freedom flapping proudly on his back. I had recently discovered that these insignias are what set the three military branches apart: the Survey Corps wear blue and white wings, the Garrison wear two simple red roses crosswise from each other, and the Military Police wear a green unicorn with a white mane. That is how they distinguish themselves from one another. And now that I think about it...

The night that the military police came to the underground was the day that I had seen those unicorn embellishments, something that I had definitely seen before in my past, but it was the first time that I had actually seen the Survey Corps embellishment. The last memory that I have of being in that city is when I was enveloped by darkness in the tunnel that Anita had shown me. A figure had approached me and knocked me unconscious. A figure...who wore the Wings of Freedom on their back in the exact same manner that the commander is right now. At the time, I assumed that the symbol was a way to differentiate military policemen of a higher status from those who were more inferior, but now I am aware. That figure was somebody from the Survey Corps. Those dull, blue eyes were not there to eradicate, but rather, they were there to emancipate.

The Survey Corps saved my life.

"There are two important traits that a good soldier must possess, among other things. The first," Erwin explains as he reaches into his right pant pocket, "is teamwork." He pulls out what appears to be a map of sorts. "It is imperative that you all know how to work together. From now on, these are the people that you will be fighting side by side with." None of us answer; we purely watch him with attentive eyes. "I will be providing you all with this map, and it will be your task to head into the training grounds behind me and find the location that is marked on it. This not only tests how well you are able to work with one another, but it allows me to determine whether or not you can decipher the contents of a map. Outside of the walls, it is crucial that you follow and interpret the exact formations that I assign for each expedition. Otherwise, you may be the one who is plausible for the demise of our regiment."

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Everything that he is telling us right now makes perfect sense, but I still cannot find it in myself to understand it completely. Is it possible that I am intimidated by those who are already members of the Survey Corps, so I am subconsciously telling myself that I will fail to be a good soldier? Have I given up before I have even started? Or am I just overthinking it?

"What's the second trait?" The young woman who stands next to me is the one who asks this question, stifling my doubtful thoughts. Her black bangs flick to the side as she regards Erwin. "You said there were two traits." Her tone resonates with irritation.

The commander smiles at the woman earnestly. He continues on, "Thank you for bringing me to my next point, Karlyn." I find it respectable that he at least took the time out of his busy schedule to learn each of our names. "The next trait is skill. This, of course, is common sense, but I must mention it nonetheless. Figuring out how coordinated each of you are when it comes to intense combat will make it easier for me to create training methods that suit your individual needs." Erwin then drops his voice to a quiet mumble, "I'm excited to discover what kinds of skills you all already possess. I've observed some incredible talent in the past."

This time, it is Aldo who questions him. "How are you going to measure that? Are you going to make us fight somebody within our group?"

"Not quite."

"Then how are you going to do it?"

"You will find out upon reaching your destination."

I scrunch my eyebrows together in confusion, as do the others. But Erwin stays composed and closes the distance between him and Aldo, handing him the map that he holds in his hands. Lifting his stare and squinting towards the sky, he makes one final announcement. "It seems to be about noon right now. I will give you until approximately sundown to accomplish this task. Good luck. I have faith in all of you." And with that, he leaves us to ourselves as he retreats back to headquarters.

A delicate waft of wind abruptly picks up and fans across our bodies and faces, a considerable contrast to the draftiness of still air we have been acquainted with for the entirety of our lives. I take a quick glimpse at the sky, then drag my attention to the trees that gingerly watch over me. The rustling of dry leaves lulls me into a temporary daze, and I spot a lone leaf detaching itself from a thin branch as it slips to the ground. I meticulously follow it with my eyes: the way the ends of it curl up into a sweet smile, the patches of yellow that fade into the overwhelming shade of deep green, the steady rocking against the air from left to right, left to right, left to right...

"Hey. Maika, was it?"

"Huh?"

I feel a smack on the back of my head. I flinch and turn around to see Luis's uncompromising face peering down at me.

"Pay attention a bit more, will you?"

I lower my head and nod in slight embarrassment, mentally facepalming myself. Anita really was right; I tend to lose focus on the task at hand by getting absorbed in other distant thoughts. This is a bad habit of mine that I realize must be broken. If not, it is most probable that it will be the cause of my downfall. How pathetic would it be to hear that a soldier got devoured by a Titan because she was too busy admiring the leaves on a tree...I shake away the humiliating thought and pay attention as suggested.

"Alright." Aldo breaks it down for us, "I'm looking at this map, and I don't think it's that hard to decipher." He turns his body so that the map is facing the same direction as the forest. He points a stubby finger at the bottom left corner of the paper and elaborates, "We're here right now. I know that much because the trees start a bit farther away from these houses, and we're currently in between the forest and the houses. Got it?"

We all nod in understanding.

Luis comes up and points to a different section of the map. "So from our current position, it would make sense to start north and then head east when we get to this point?"

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too."

"Okay, it's settled then."

From this small exchange, I can already tell that Luis and Aldo will be the ones leading this group. They are outspoken and not afraid to voice their objections if they feel that somebody else is wrong. It is also uncanny to me how similar they look. They have the same brawny build and are about the same height; their facial expressions mimic each other and they both have hairy brown beards and untamed eyebrows. Their close resemblance is not too hard to look past, though. They have contrasting facial features, like Luis's eyes are a lot narrower and his nose protrudes more whereas Aldo has bug-like eyes and a rounded nose, not to mention his hair is a lot curlier. I do not take them to be siblings, let alone related in any matter, but it is always helpful to make observations.

As we begin our trek into the training grounds, I find myself wandering into the expanse of all that nature has to offer me. Long blades of grass kiss my bare skin and towering flower petals desperately attempt to cling to me, cajoling me to commend their intrinsic beauty. This compels me to gaze up at the sky as I walk. The brown branches of tree trunks make arbitrary lines across my field of vision, each one a different length and thickness, and the spaces between them are stuffed with vibrant green and yellow leaves. They rustle loudly, almost as if they are speaking to me. They are most likely telling me to focus on my objective and to stop ogling them.

I look back in front of me to see Luis and Aldo making assertive strides in the direction of our desired location, Karlyn easily falling in step behind them. Eli, on the other hand, appears more isolated. His head sweeps from side to side as he appreciates the scenery around him, mouth agape. Did I look as silly as him when I was doing the same thing? I wonder how old the young boy is. By the looks of it, I would guess maybe fifteen or sixteen. I do not bother asking.

We eventually reach a steep hill that takes a bit more effort to overcome but once we are able to conquer the apex, the trail down is a much simpler, smoother travel. The sun has emerged from its hidden corner behind the trees and whips us with a scorching heat, shoots of light skillfully maneuvering around the empty spaces in between undulating leaves and beating us with an almost intolerable warmth. From this, I conclude that sundown is approaching soon.

"Oi, I think we're close to the end." Aldo stops in his tracks and strains his eyes at the map, holding an arm out in the direction of the sun to prevent its rays from blinding him. "What do you guys think?"

Luis is the first to come up and assist him. He takes the map from him and studies it carefully. "Actually, I believe we're already in the right spot."

Aldo seizes the map again. "No, I don't think so."

The two of them then take part in a lengthy debate over which one is correct. Eli lies down on his back and stares at the trees once more while Karlyn casually picks up rocks and twigs and tosses them between branches. I sit behind the two bickering men against the flat end of a sturdy tree trunk. So much for them working together...

Wait.

We are ALL supposed to be working together.

And I am not even attempting to help the two.

As this sudden realization dons on me, I mentally facepalm myself. Again. I clumsily stand up from my position and address Luis and Aldo.

"Excuse me, may I see the map?"

The men cease their quarreling to look down at me. They both must be at least six feet tall while I am only a measly five foot four. Luis snatches the map from Aldo and hands it to me.

"Hey! I was still looking at that!"

I quickly scan over the details of the map. Fortunately, the labels are based on pictures rather than place names, so that makes things a lot easier. But then again, most of the pictures are just trees and all we are surrounded by at the moment are trees, so that is not really a big help. But I do notice that the large "X" on the map is in an area that lacks them.

I tell them, "I don't think that we're in the correct location right now because we're still surrounded by trees and the place that we're supposed to be in doesn't have any..."

"Exactly!" Aldo exclaims, "That's what I was trying to tell hard-headed Luis over here!"

"What'd you just call me?"

I continue to stare at the map, blinking several times as I try to come up with a plausible solution. "I can tell that we're close to the destination because we reached the end of the hill, and the map indicates that the end of the hill is right here." I point my finger to an area directly next to the "X", then tilt my head to the side. "But then...when we started heading east awhile back, that kind of changed the relativity of things..."

"Hold up." Luis holds his hand out to me, signifying that he would like to see the map. I blink a few more times in deep thought but willingly hand it over to him. "Maybe if we just..." He turns the map counterclockwise in a ninety degree angle. "Okay, now if we follow the map based on this..." He browses his surroundings until his eyes land on an open area a couple of hundred yards to our left. "Bingo."

After signalling to Eli and Karlyn that he had found the correct spot, Luis leads the rest of the way with a newfound confidence. I faithfully follow behind him. Upon arrival at the new location, I do not see anything that stands out. It almost causes me to believe that we are still at the wrong place. But where else could we go if not here?

But then I see it.

A lone figure emerges from the trees and enters the enclosure. As they step closer, it becomes clear to me that they are wearing the Survey Corps uniform. However, their face is obscured due to the hood that they have lazily draped over their head. Nonetheless, our mission is a success. Sundown has yet to brandish its beauty, and we have already reached our destination.

"Ay, man," Luis calls out to them, "we made it. That was a challenging task you gave us, but thank you. I learned a lot from it. Do we get to go back now?" He meanders up to the mysterious figure with his hand held out, prepared to give them a heartfelt handshake.

But the figure stops and plants their feet on the ground, waiting.

Luis's hand drops slightly as he hesitates. "Oh. My bad. You might not recognize us because we don't have our uniforms quite yet, but I can guarantee you that we're soon-to-be members of the Survey Corps. Don't worry." He finds his poise again. But the moment he lifts his hand a second time, the figure swiftly grabs onto his wrist and yanks forward, causing Luis to stumble into them. They turn around and pull him over the entire length of their body, then slam him onto the ground. His back makes contact with the dirt first, clumps of dust dispersing everywhere in the process.

I hear Luis groan, visibly in pain. If I was not intimidated before, I was definitely intimidated now. Those moves that were just pulled were both clean and precise, fluid and quick. Even the smallest details of the tactic were executed near perfectly. I deliberately walk over to Luis in order to make sure he is still conscious, but I hear Eli mention from behind me, "This is just a guess, but maybe this is the part Erwin was talking about when he said we'd find out how he's measuring our combat skills. Don't take my word for it, though..."

"Really? Is that what you think, Captain Obvious?" Karlyn retorts from her spot leaning against a tree.

But just like that, the agile figure begins sprinting, this time in my direction. My eyes widen in shock. I barely have time to register what is happening, so all I manage to accomplish is rolling out of the way before I am able to take a sharp kick to the face. I end up on all fours, then fumble to stand up on both feet. But they are too fast. They are already sprinting again and the second my legs straighten, I am being knocked off of my feet. I can feel myself flying back in the same manner as Luis. My back strikes the ground, and I scrunch my face from the intense sting that accompanies it. I hurriedly get up yet again, setting my stance about hip-width apart, my left heel raised off of the ground with the majority of pressure being applied to the ball of my foot. I tense my legs and begin to lift my arms in defense but feel an agonizing punch thrust into my stomach. I had completely forgotten to tense my abdomen. I cough out and clutch at my sides.

There is no possible way that I will be able to outfight this person. They have yet to take a single hit from me. I can barely even play the role of defense to begin with.

I stagger backwards, holding my arms out diagonally in front of me to counter their next hit. I grit my teeth from the impact, and I skid back a couple of inches. But still, I remain standing, and that is all that matters to me right now.

Distance and timing. These are two key factors to excel at when it comes to being a great fighter. It does not matter how strong one is, but being able to exercise these factors to the utmost potential can almost guarantee a win against the opponent. I am aware of that much. The problem is that I do not know what distance to be at nor what time to make my hits. I am at a complete loss right now.

Each attack my opponent delivers leaves my body aching more than it had the last, stabbing pains traveling up my arms every time their fist makes contact with my skin. They seem to eventually get tired of carrying out the same moves, so they suddenly take to moving faster, lunging at me in an extremely unpredictable manner in order to prevent me from accurately predicting where the next lash will fall. I attempt to snake my way out from their presence, but not before they land a jarring blow to my right shoulder. I grimace and clamp my hand over the area of damage and as I start to recuperate, I notice that my rival takes the opportunity to bring their knee up and bash it against my hip, as well as use their free hand to form another fist and aim for the side of my face. An excruciatingly painful tingling sensation forms on my left cheek right away, like hundreds of miniscule pins and needles are planting themselves into the surface of my skin.

They pull their fist away from my face and grab the back of my collar, yanking me backwards. My balance falters, and I fall back against their chest. I use the small opening to hastily ram the back of my head against the front of theirs, leaving them momentarily distracted as they recoil in discomfort. Leaning forward, I swing my leg back to connect with their shin, causing them to lose footing, leaving us both tumbling.

A wave of bewilderment surges through me. The only noise that I can hear at this time is the blood that is rushing through my ears as I try to comprehend my surroundings. My vision is blurry; I can barely make out the orange and pink hues of the sky, along with the faint shape of a figure staring down at me. My fingers brush against tiny grains of dirt and from this, I take it that I must be lying on the ground again. Then, as if to remind me that I am in the middle of a fight, my opponent takes their foot and uses their boot to press down onto my shoulder, triggering a groan of agony to escape from me in response.

My cheek burns, and I can already tell that a moderate-sized bruise is going to form within the next couple of days. A muted throb is the only response that I receive from my shoulder because it is numb now; it seems to have reached its peak of pain. The inside of my mouth tastes salty and bitter, the irony smell of blood consuming my senses. I tilt my head to the side so that I can spit out the bothersome clots in the back of my throat but wince in displeasure when my injured shoulder presses farther into the ground.

As I heave to catch my breath, I realize that my enemy is not even the least bit worn out. Now that they peer down at me, their eyes have become visible, and I am met with a blatantly emotionless stare, as well as a sudden deja vu.

The figure tears their dull, blue eyes away from me and fixes them towards the rest of the group, then impatiently removes the hood from their head. A formidable silence replaces the once cacophonous aura of the enclosure as we realize who stands upon us.

"Well?" It is the renowned captain who breaks the silence. "Don't just stand there and gawk at me. Who's next?"

 


	8. Long Days Lie Ahead

"Maika Kuhn?"

Forcing my eyes to meet those of the woman who sits across from me, I shrink back into my seat a bit as I realize how close she is to invading my personal space.

"Yes, ma'am," I confirm somewhat awkwardly.

I remind myself to add her face to my brain's personal inventory of people that I have met. Ever since I left the underground city, there has been an inundation of new information that has required me to make a conscious effort in memorizing various names and locations, and I already find that it has been hard to keep up with.

I make a mental note to create flashcards later on.

But then again, I don't think that this specific face will be difficult to remember. Though her features are far from being refined and polished, once I am able to look past the wild strands of auburn hair that have escaped the thick elastic band that holds the rest of it together and the crooked glasses that are a bit too wide for her head, I can tell that her entire ambience emanates an intellectually curious energy. There is a simmering fire lit within her eyes, a fire that sets the tone for her bubbly and hyper personality. I refrain from adding insane to the mixture. After all, one should not judge so quickly.

"Maika Kuhn..." She repeats my name, mulling over it as if there's something off about it. Perhaps, she believes that she's pronouncing it incorrectly. As I begin to open my mouth to assure her that she is not mistaken with her pronunciation, she mutters, "That's a bit long, how can I shorten that down a few syllables?"

I close my mouth as quickly as it opened.

Together, my first and last name consist of only three syllables; I'm not really sure why she would feel the need to shorten it. But I guess it is true that she has a lot of faces to remember other than myself, so maybe doing things this way makes it easier for her. The cold droplets of water that were clinging onto my left cheek slip down to the base of my jawline as I adjust the ice pack next to my face, mitigating the throbbing sensation that pulsates from my skin. I then take to staring at this incredulous stranger.

She continues to mumble the syllables of my name. "Mai...Ka...Kuhn. Kuhn...Ka...Mai." Besides her almost incoherent slewing of words, the only noise that can be heard is the ever-so-often crinkling of ice. But a couple of moments later, her eyes finally expand, indicating that the flickering light bulb that patiently resides inside of her head has brightened considerably. She must have reached a conclusion for my name.

"Ka Kuhn. That sounds a lot like another word I know..." She trails off a bit, then perks up again, "I know what I'm going to call you now!" The woman places a closed fist by her mouth and promptly clears her throat, then clasps her hands together and scoots her chair even closer to me. She leans forward, and several of her auburn strands of hair graze my face like that of a delicate flower petal as it caresses one's skin. Looking me in the eye with the most serious façade I have seen from her yet, she states, "Hello, Cocoon."

A flash of confusion strikes my face, but I am quick to hide it right away. This is an unusual predicament. I avert my eyes from the slightly maniacal woman before me and press my attention elsewhere. This could just be another one of Erwin's tests to see how well I can handle insane individuals. It is safe to believe that I can refer to this woman as such now. I am sure that that is what this is.

If my presumptions are correct, then this room must be her own personal office of sorts. I was brought here by one of the more amateur soldiers after recovering a bit from my forest injuries inside of the infirmary. She led me and the other undergrounders past multiple hallways and staircases until we reached a dead end at the corner of one of the halls. The last door that we encountered was hers. Luis, Aldo, Karlyn, and Eli have each gone through their little spiel with the woman already, me being the final one. I wonder how it went for them, especially for somebody as stoic as Karlyn, who has such a vexed and sarcastic nature.

It appears that somebody had tried organizing her room at one point, though I doubt it was the woman herself. Countless stacks of paper litter the wooden floor in varying piles, some reaching past my waist and others just a jumbled clutter splayed in random directions. None of the piles in the stacks are lined up in the same manner, either. The walls have been bestowed with papers as well, and upon peeking closer, I discern that they are sketches of large creatures with malformed appendages. There are labels written all over them, consisting of measurements, descriptions, and theories.

One specific paper catches my eye.

It is turned at a landscape point of view, and the drawing that is presented upon it seems to have had a lot more work put into it in comparison to the others. There are two people in this painting: one of them I figure to be the woman who is sitting behind her desk, for the way the hair is pulled up messily and the way the crooked glasses take up a decent portion of her face are relatively similar. The other is a figure of somebody with blond hair scrawled on top of their head and bulging blue eyes. Their size is a lot larger than the person next to them, but that may just be the artist's doing.

Could that be her son?

I study the drawing a bit more. Underneath this attempted portrait, the words "Sawney and Me" are lazily scribbled across.

Ah, so her son's name is Sawney. His features mirror a few of the commander's, so I begin to fit the pieces together and assume that the commander and this woman have a child together. I never would have guessed the commander to go for somebody like this woman, but the world is full of many unexpected events. I can only be happy for the two of them.

I continue to stare at this painting until a low, almost demonic sounding laugh brings my focus back to the woman in front of me. Her actions surprise me, but in a way, I am also grateful since it distracts me from the pain on my cheek and shoulder.

Still, I should probably ask her if she's okay.

"Are you—"

Her laughter becomes louder. Sliding back in her chair, she starts slapping a hand to her knee and removing her glasses as she wipes a tear away from her face with her other hand.

"COCOON!" She shouts with utmost hilarity. "It's perfect! It fits you perfectly! You're a timid child who is about to hatch into a beautiful soldier! I love the analogy!"

"I'm not a chil—"

"Oh my goodness..." Her hysterical laughter dies down and a somber look replaces her normally upbeat face. I notice that her eyes are starting to glaze over with tears, though they are tears of sadness this time instead of amusement. "Maika," she quietly whispers, "you're going to turn into a beautiful butterfly soon, and I can't wait to see when it happens."

My mind runs blank.

"Listen, Maika. I know that your parents spelled your name in such a boring way, but I'm going to fix that. From now on, we're spelling your name as 'My Cocoon' instead of 'Maika Kuhn.' I'm claiming you as my kin. You are my cocoon now."

It runs even more blank. This woman...is insulting my name. She looks up at me questioningly.

"Do you not like my nickname for you, Cocoon?"

I decide to answer truthfully.

"Not exactly..."

"That's okay. You'll get used to it. I'm still going to take you under my wing as my child."

"Oh, don't worry about it, miss. I'm sure that you and the commander are already busy taking care of your chil—"

The door opens.

"Oi, Shitty Glasses. We don't have all day. Finish giving them their results so that they can get going."

A suppressed snickering can be heard from her end.

"Levi," the woman drawls out to the irritated man while holding her laughter, "you will not believe what this girl just said..."

Be he has already closed the door and left.

"Maika," she finally bursts out laughing, "you weren't being serious about that, were you? You are honestly one of the funniest people I have met here so far."

"I'm not trying to be funny..." My words trail off.

A muffled voice yells from down the hall, "And clean that pigsty of yours when you're finished."

She sighs profoundly and drops her voice to a bit above a whisper. "Levi is a pain at times, but I still love the man." She accompanies this with a wink.

Wait...

Does that mean...

Is this woman cheating on the commander with the captain?

I have no clue anymore.

"Anyway, I'm Hange Zoë. I have your results from earlier right here." She grabs a piece of paper with my name on it and slides it across her desk for me to analyze. She then goes on to explain, "You guys probably weren't aware of it, but several of the high ranking officers, myself included, followed you into the forest from a distance with our vertical maneuvering gear to see how well you would collaborate with one another and what kinds of decisions you all would make. Then, when each of you fought against Levi..."

She stalls and puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder before going on, "Or should I say when you got absolutely pummeled by him..." I purse my lips. "We watched from the trees above you and took notes."

Now that I think about it, it does make a lot of sense. Erwin obviously needed people to observe us as we maneuvered our way through the forest. He couldn't have just assumed that we would automatically work well together because he told us to or do advanced combat without having anybody to watch over us in the process.

Hange points at my results with her finger. "From what we observed, you tend to push yourself more towards the sideline. You don't exactly like taking charge, so you rely on somebody else that you believe has better leadership abilities. From, this we could definitely tell that you are a more timid person when it comes to making big decisions or taking risks. But you have to realize that being part of the Survey Corps is all about taking risks and making decisions that might end up being the wrong one. On the positive side, though, we did notice that near the end of the first task, you spoke up and gave suggestions about where you guys were and if you were heading in the right direction. So that's definitely a plus. I'm sure that with some more training, you could improve that skill."

I do not disagree with any of her words.

"Now, moving on to your one-on-one combat against the captain..."

Some invisible force compels me to let my head hang low. This part of the conversation is not exactly one that I am looking forward to hearing.

"Your tendency of not taking charge really does become exemplified when you fight. You may have done a header or kicked once or twice but overall, you only tried to play defense. That doesn't speak on combat abilities too much. Don't get me wrong, though. You're very quick and actually do a good job of predicting where a move is going to land, but you just don't know how to execute your own abilities. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you did much fighting when you were in the underground city. It's almost as if you learned a bunch of skills a long time ago but have never implemented them since then. I can tell that you have a basic sense of how to defend yourself, but it seems that more than anything, you are most comfortable with running from your problems instead of actually facing them. Am I wrong?"

I pause, then hesitantly shake my head from side to side.

"But hey, don't beat yourself up too much over it. I'm not calling you Cocoon for no reason. I really do believe that you have a lot of potential. I mean, everybody does. The question is just if you're actually willing to utilize that potential and transform it to your advantage."

It's almost scary how composed Hange becomes when she's strictly talking business.

"It's too dark outside now, so you guys unfortunately won't be able to get a start on training today, but I'm sure that Erwin already has several plans for you up his sleeve. And I'll be honest with you; he'll probably make you all feel as if you're his little guinea pigs, testing out a whole bunch of different ideas and methods on you. He'll most likely go into more detail on that tomorrow when he or one of the others sets you up for training."

She adds, "To give you a basic idea of what to expect, you can assume to train every day, excluding expedition days or unless one of the higher ups states otherwise. Throughout the week, we rotate between sparring, vertical maneuvering gear, building physical strength, riding horses, academics, and the like. Some days, you will be in the classroom in the morning, practicing your vertical maneuvering gear in the afternoon, and riding horses in the evening. Other days, you'll spar in the morning, build up your strength in the afternoon, and go to class in the evening. Of course, it depends on what day of the week it is and whose schedule you're on. I'll be sure to give you a schedule later today. It gets to be a very tedious effort, but that's the life of a soldier for you. It's what needs to be done. And at the end, it really is worth it. Well, as long as you continue to survive. But even if you don't, I personally think it's still worth it for the sake of your comrades."

My muscles already feel sore after hearing these words. I push away the thought instantly and deviate from the subject at hand by asking her, "So what should I be doing right now?"

"Ah!" Hange exclaims, "Right. After evening classes, the captain requires all soldiers to clean the headquarters. I'll have you know that he is quite the clean freak and has pretty high standards when it comes to that...so good luck with that! After our little meeting is over, I'll be sending you over to the library to make it all sparkly and shiny, good as new!"

Suddenly, I do not want to leave her office anymore.

"Hange," I start, "could you maybe elaborate a little bit more on my resul—"

The auburn-haired woman wags a lone finger at me in disapproval. "There's no such thing as escape when it comes to Levi's cleaning duties. When you leave my office, make a right and go back to the main stairwell. From there, if you keep walking, you'll eventually find the library. There should be a closet door somewhere next to it filled with supplies. If not, you can go find Levi and ask him where they are."

I am not looking forward to this task at all.

"Have fun, Cocoon! Remember to stop by here later to get your schedule. I'll also let you know where to get your new uniform! If not, I'll just bring it by your room later on." Hange then stands up from her chair and walks up to me, grabbing me by my shoulders and ushering me out the door. "See you soon, Maika!"

I hear the door shut itself and lock from the inside.

My eyes close, and I cannot help but sigh in defeat. When I finally open them again after a few moments and look outside of a nearby window, I notice that several stars have already punctured the sky with their lambency, signifying the early manifestation of nightfall. I take this as a sign that I should probably make my departure to the library as soon as possible so that I can get to rest at a decent time. But at this rate, I do not think that my wishes will be granted as such.

The walk to the library is slightly complicated, partly due to Hange's guidance on how to arrive there. Her directions on how to reach the stairwell are fairly clear, but from there, she only told me to 'keep walking' in order to get to the library. That doesn't necessarily serve to be a problem, except for the fact that upon reaching the stairwell, I am greeted by several divergences of hallways. Because of this, I end up walking through each of these paths, only to discover that the library is located at the end of the very last hallway that I search through.

Luck does not seem to have my back today.

But the day is almost over, so I can safely assume that no other drawbacks will occur for the remainder of the night.

The closet door that stands next to my destination is brimming with cleaning supplies like Hange said, and I find it to be a bit daunting at first glance. I do not recognize a majority of these appliances, let alone do I actually know how to utilize them. However, a good selection of the items inside have yet to be opened, meaning that I can read their covers and get an idea of what to do based on the instructions provided inside, not to mention that I can also use my common sense to figure out how to use them. At realizing this, little bursts of confidence are reimbursed within me. I grab onto whatever materials my hands can get a hold of and fumble around a bit as I clumsily enter the library doors.

A familiar face greets me right away.

"Hange sent you here, too?"

I recognize him to be Luis.

"Yeah, she did."

He nods his head in understanding. Then, as if reading my mind, he addresses me, "These supplies probably don't look all that familiar to you, do they? But don't worry, I think I've started to figure it out." I feel the heavy load of items within my hands lighten as he plucks a single piece of equipment from the pile and twirls it against his palms. "This is what I assume is for cleaning the windows. I've been using one to clean the floor, so you can most likely just use it to clean the windows over there as well."

"Are you sure you use this to clean both floors and windows? What is it called?"

"A mop."

I don't know any better, so I will wholly trust his judgement.

"Oh," he adds, "if I'm not mistaken, you dunk that into a bucket of soapy water and scrub the head against the window glass back and forth until it's clean. That's what works for me when I do the floors. It can't be much different. Now, I don't know how high this Levi guy's cleaning standards are, but I'm sure that that will do the job just fine."

I bid Luis a quick word of thanks and retrieve the bucket and soap that he mentioned in order to begin my cleaning task at the other side of the room. And so the night begins. The squeaking of my mop making contact with the window glass and the rustling of Luis's mop as it presses back and forth against the tiles of the library floor create a sort of periodic rhythm inside of the enclosed space. I would not classify it as melodic, but there is a soothing notion that teems inside of me from the sound, maybe at just knowing that I'm not alone and confined to my own silences. So when I retract my mop from the glass to squeeze the water back into the bucket and notice that the rustling has ceased from the other side of the room, I passively cease my actions as well. Multiple sniffles can be heard from Luis's end. I stretch my neck to peer in his direction.

The morose man is bent forward on his knees and shaking, gripping his fingers so tightly around the long part of the mop that his knuckles are starting to turn white. I can tell that he knows I notice this because of the way he soon stiffens his posture and tries so desperately to stifle his soft crying. Seeing such a tough and burly man break down in front of me should not serve to be a surprise, yet I find myself a bit shocked from the scene. No matter how strong the casement of the human body is, and no matter how professional of a cool-headed mask one can slip over their face, the heart is still such a fragile thing. This is just a solemn reminder of that fact. His voice stirs a bit as he murmurs somebody's name.

"Charlotte..."

It's a beautiful name.

"Charlotte. She really did love to help her daddy clean around the house..."

A beautiful daughter.

He chuckles sadly, shaking his head, seemingly forgetting that he's not alone in the room. "And there was always something to clean in that house. I'm almost confident that Charlotte ruined things and broke them just so she could clean it up right after. I remember bringing home an antique bracelet set home one evening from the market thinking that she would be excited to make some jewelry of her own. You know, you girls love to play with that kind of stuff. It was expensive, too. Just a little something to make her happy amidst the chaos in the city, to distract her from the drunkards and the gunshots...Left the room for a few minutes, only to find all of the beads to the bracelets spilled all over the floor and little Charlotte with her makeshift brush and dustpan sweeping away."

A silence ensues before he continues, "That girl loved cleaning. I remember the exact way she looked up at me and smiled when I walked back into the room. She said, 'Daddy. Daddy, do I look like Mama right now?' And she really did. Her mother was always cleaning, no wonder. The same blue eyes, puffy cheeks, and that damn frizzy hair. I loved it. I love it. I love all of it." His mumbling falls again as he starts choking on his words.

A beautiful soul.

I did not ask him to explain himself to me, and I certainly did not think he owed me an explanation as to why he was crying. He did so, anyway. I can tell that he's hurting, but this makes me wonder why he continues to push forward by being in the Survey Corps. He lost everything that he held dear to him, yet he still continues to fight.

What is his motivation?

Though this question causes so many more to drip into my thoughts, it also opens so many once locked doors. Little do I know, there are many people that I've met in my life that have surpassed the pains of their past and used it as a way to push forward. And I'm sure that there are many more who do so but I have yet to meet.

What is their reason for living?

I quickly step down from my place upon the windowsill and walk towards Luis's bent form. Taking the mop from his clenched fists, I return it to the soap-filled bucket. He slowly anchors his head to meet my eyes. I clear my throat before saying quietly, "You did well." Then, I incline my head to the entering doors of the library to let him know that it's okay for him to be done for the night. My words' intentions were directed at his job of cleaning the floors, but perhaps I meant much more than that.

As he deliberately brings himself to his feet, he takes one of my hands and clasps it between both of his. I flinch at the unexpected action, but I know that his intentions are pure and genuine.

"Your eyes look just like hers." The tears that were being held back in his eyes finally release themselves as he grants me a melancholy smile. He lets go of my hand as quickly as he held onto it and starts out the library, taking his mop and bucket with him. "Don't stay up too late doing the captain's work, alright?"

"Yes, sir," I mutter inadvertently.

When I'm confident that he's gone, I return to my section of the room and face my reflection in one of the windows. Two little almond-shaped eyes stare back at me through the glass.

Your eyes look just like hers.

But Charlotte's eyes are blue.

If that's the case, then I'm not sure why he would make that claim. It has been a while since I last saw my reflection anywhere, so I resort to avoiding it instead so that I don't have to scrutinize my darkened circles, hollow cheeks, and chapped lips any longer. I grab my mop with a bit of lost passion, making sure to drench it in enough soapy water, and step back onto the windowsill to return to my duties as a soldier.

But something is telling me that I'm not cleaning these windows correctly.

I'm following Luis's instructions, but I can easily see the streaks where my mop has touched the glass. There are several streaks on each window that I have cleaned thus far, and in my opinion, they all look far worse than they did before I started cleaning them. Maybe I am not using the proper amount of soap or soaking up the desired amount into the mop head. Or maybe this mop is not even the piece of equipment that I'm supposed to be using to clean windows. But since I don't know what else to use, I decide to persist with my current methods.

Another set of windows still remains unfinished. Because they're higher up, I have to step onto a nearby bookshelf in order to reach them. I begin scrubbing at the glass once again, being careful not to trip and fall as I do so. Although I'm changing the pressure at which I scrub and the direction that the mop is going in, streaks continue to appear regardless. I figure that once I'm done cleaning all of the windows the way I'm doing it now, I can go back and see how to fix my mistakes from there.

It does feel slightly awkward to be cleaning the windows so late into the night. This isn't because of the task itself but because of the fact that having bright lights on inside and a pitch blackness outside only makes my appearance more evident to anybody who happens to be walking close to the vicinity. It is harder for me to see outside because I am only presented with a thick layer of darkness whereas somebody who is looking into the library from outside can plainly see every nook and cranny that is within their field of vision. But since it's nearly midnight already, I don't expect anybody to be—

Yank!

I think my foot just caught onto someth—

Thump!

But I swear there was nothing ther—

Splash!

I cough several times before realizing that fell off the bookshelf and am now completely soaked. The aftertaste of dirty soap water lingers in my mouth as I start coughing again in an attempt to spit away the unpleasant tingling sensation. Before even thinking about the situation any further, I quickly scamper up from the floor and make sure the mop bucket is upright again so as not to spill any more water. My eyes sting, and they cannot help but water because of the foreign chemicals that managed to get inside of them. After rubbing them a few times and coming to the conclusion that that does not make the stinging any less painful, I decide to wait it out.

It only takes about twenty to thirty seconds for the pain to start withdrawing from my eyes, but I don't think it's quite safe for me to open them yet, so I feel around the floor in front of me for the mop that I was holding not even a minute ago.

I eventually grab onto what I believe is the mop, wrapping my hand around the stick end. It is not even a millisecond later that I am doing this when I realize the material is not the same as the wood I had become unfavorably accustomed to over the past hour or two, and the circumference is a bit too large to be my mop's...

I panic and open my eyes.

"That's not how to properly clean a window."

Captain Levi stares down at me with a calm composure but with eyes that are set ablaze with extreme annoyance. My brain is quick to register that I'm not holding onto my mop right now, but I am in fact grasping onto the bottom of his pant leg.

Without thinking, I immediately let go and stagger back from my position on my knees, only to slip on the puddle that I had created earlier and fall forward onto my face.

"Clean this again. Floor and bookshelves included. And use the right appliances this time."

I do not bother to lift my head and face him again directly, so I allow the floor to obscure the heat that is rushing to my cheeks. The captain does not say another word as he leaves out the library doors.

Deliberately, I bring myself to a sitting position on the floor once I'm confident that he is nowhere in sight. My hair is now matted down to my scalp, and tiny droplets of soapy water slip from the tips of it and onto the floor, taking over the silence of the large room. When the large creaking of a door interrupts the flow of this sound, I pivot my head to face the direction of the noise and see a soldier with short, strawberry-blond hair walking in.

"Well, you don't see that every day, now do you?"

I only blink in response.

"Don't take it too personally. Captain Levi's like that to everybody. I mean, no wonder he yanked you off of that bookshelf by your leg. You literally had your dirty shoes on the part that he had just cleaned earlier today."

"Yanked me off?" I question.

"What? You thought that was a ghost that did that? Captain Levi doesn't appreciate when people dirty up work that he just finished. You might as well have personally asked him to dig your grave for you."

"Thanks for letting me know this," I mention a bit unenthusiastically.

"No problem! You're supposed to use the rag and spray bottle for the windows and the mop for the floor. Then the duster for the bookshelf. I recommend cleaning the windows first, then the bookshelves, and then the floor. That tends to keep the place the most clean."

I acknowledge the kind woman with another small word of thanks.

"I would help you clean up, but I have a lot of paperwork that needs to get done by tomorrow for the commander. Good luck, though!"

After the woman leaves, the next few hours do not prove to be pleasant at all. That being said, the windows are eventually ridden of their streaks and the bookshelves become absent of any signs of dust. I finish the last of my mopping the floor and almost collapse onto the bucket from the extreme fatigue that courses inside of me. I know that I'm close to dozing off entirely, so I'm quick to put the materials back into the closet and hurry back to my bedroom.

When I exit the closet and turn back to the main stairwell, I unexpectedly bump into another person yet again. This time, it is the commander.

"Maika Kuhn, am I correct?"

I do my best not to slur my drowsy voice as I answer back, "Yes, sir."

"I see that you're coming back from the library so late. Were you perhaps studying Titan anatomy or expedition formations to get a head start for classes tomorrow?"

I don't even need to think of an excuse for myself because Commander Erwin has already provided one for me.

"Something like that," I mutter.

"That's great, but I encourage you to get some rest now. It's quite late, and you do have to wake up early tomorrow for rules and regulations regarding training. After all, you look much overdue for some sleep."

I take this as the perfect opportunity to leave without feeling any type of regret.

"Yes. Goodnight, sir," I slur, not even attempting to hide my tiredness any longer. Exhaustion has already settled itself gently onto my eyelids, and a certain weariness has tautly taken me by the hand and is leading me back my room.

I tell myself that I should wash up before bed but somehow end up convincing myself to do it tomorrow instead, along with my bed sheet and cover. I should never convince myself of such things because it will only lead to bad habits in the future.

Because in this world, telling myself that I can always do something tomorrow is never guaranteed.


	9. Dissemble Your Heart

The string that inevitably ties Anita and I together will always succeed at producing intricate knots within the ventricles of my heart. Those knots may be induced with nothing but pure love, their lone intention being to evoke in me a familiar comfort, but to me, they are only bursts of self-reproaching inclinations solely made for the purpose of hurting me.

A diligent sun, distant though it is, has faithfully watched over me for seven straight days, and an equally loyal moon has done the same for seven dragging nights. Within this fixed period time that never seems to waver, I've learned the ways of a true soldier. The bruises on my body and the aching of my muscles are an undeniable proof of this. I find that out of all of the things I've participated in thus far, I excel the most academically. I have my mother to thank for this. Without her, I wouldn't be able to read the words on the pages of my textbooks.

It is still surreal to me the way that works: the way somebody is able to study a specified combination of strokes from a quill and designate that to a letter. Those letters then formulate words, and those words represent something in this ever-expanding world.

I already have a detailed grasp of Titan anatomy stitched within my brain, their portly abdomens protruding at inconsistent proportions in comparison to their scraggly limbs that dangle helplessly at their sides and the section of nape that needs to be severed at least one inch deep and one inch across in order to successfully incapacitate one's head.

The professors have not yet taught us about Titan expeditions and formations, but I'm sure that the time will arrive soon enough. Perhaps when I'm granted with a bit of a break from training, I'll accept the time graciously and use it to my advantage by reading ahead in my textbooks to better prepare myself for the knowledge that is to be taught to me in the near future.

On the other hand, sparring and the vertical maneuvering gear are not something I can say I excel at, so it might be better for me to use my free time to practice that instead. In all honesty, I think this is due to me not being in good physical condition, but once I am able to improve that aspect of myself, I believe I'll do much better. But for now, I'll continue to struggle with the force that is needed to execute a spar attack or to pull myself into the air with the 3DMG.

From watching the others, I can tell that Eli is more similar to myself regarding strengths and weaknesses whereas the remaining three are most skillful in anything that involves physical fitness. I wonder how their skills will compare to that of the other soldiers when exclusive training ends and we officially merge with the trainees who come from inside of the walls instead of just the underground for testing day. With the way it's going now, I really need to devote myself to exercising if I want to be even remotely close to par.

The physical exercise is not necessarily hard; it's just tedious work. The longer I do it, the more sore I become, making it harder to lift heavier weights or do an increasing number of sit-ups in comparison to the last time I worked out. But at the same time, I know that these signs of being sore are only indicators that I'm getting stronger and in better shape. I'd say the biggest drawback is that it makes cleaning at night an even more difficult task than it already is.

Speaking of, I haven't directly faced the captain since the night after my one-on-one combat against him. I have no reason to face him in the first place, seeing how he's not my squad leader, but ever since that uneventful situation with the window, I've been very meticulous with my efforts in making sure I clean my area properly when asked to do so. But truthfully, I still don't think I know what I'm doing. I generally guess what supplies to use and try to finish as quickly and quietly as possible so as not to get caught doing something incorrectly. I have seen him here or there during training or mealtimes, and he is typically just as irritated when confronting other soldiers about their mistakes or sometimes with even just their mere presence. Knowing this provides me with a guilty reassurance of sorts. But that being said, I still cannot help but feel my own degree of irritation towards him.

Overall, I would describe the past week as exhilarating but with a splurge of both weariness and foreboding. After all, our purpose in being here is to dedicate our lives to the salvation of mankind, though much of that purpose is because that was the only real choice any of the survivors of the underground massacre had, not to say that I'm not grateful. A lot has happened since that day.

But still, I cannot stop thinking about her.

When the horses first come out of their designated stables wearing their silky manes and trotting out slowly with their hooves squishing into the mushy fields, I'm reminded of the silky brown hair that lies down her back and how it sways from side to side as she runs across town.

Or when it's time to practice sparring techniques or any type of martial arts-related method, I see her eyes narrowed and unmoving, with not even the slightest flicker to the left or right as she focuses on her opponent. Nothing more and nothing less than focused.

And when sleep escorts me to bed at night, and the lack of warmth presses against my body like a ghost clinging to me with the desire for human touch, my dreams are soon filled with her pale face but eventually whisked away from me by the rise of a god's eye.

And even now, as I smooth over the folds of my Survey Corps uniform, all I'm able to see is her pursed lips grimacing at its colors, criticizing the design and how it lacks the welcoming qualities needed to make a soldier full-spirited and determined to tackle on the day. She'd most likely say something along the lines of, "If you look good, you feel good. I wouldn't feel so bad risking my life to Titans if I sported a bright pink leather jacket while I was doing it. Right, Mai?" And then I would most likely reply with a startled and discombobulated "Huh?", causing her to become annoyed with me. It's all too predictable to the point that it feels real.

It's torturing me.

Anita would have loved to be here right now.

She's a better soldier than I could ever be.

And I don't know which feeling is worse: her never being able to witness freedom or being so close to it but missing it by mere seconds.

Seconds.

She was so close.

I don't know how they do it. How people are able to take the death of somebody so close to them and use it to motivate them. It is a darkness so deep. There's nowhere to place your hands or legs, and there's not even the tiniest, attenuated sliver of light to guide you home. To me, it is the worst kind of hurt.

Or how they are able to remain blatantly emotionless after witnessing each death that arrives before them. In the same way that I have acclimatized to the sounds of bullets and helpless cries, these people have seen death so often in their lives to the point that it becomes an inconvenience at most for them. I cannot fathom it. I have seen death, too. Living in the underground city, it surrounds my entire life. My mother, my sister, my associates in the tavern. If I am so well acquainted with death, then why do I have yet to acclimatize to its presence?

I don't want to feel this pain.

I want to be devoid of my emotions, too.

My hands tremble as I pull my shirt over my body and drape my jacket over my shoulders. A small section of the shirt now has several creases from my fists clenching onto it. My audible breathing hastens, and I suddenly find myself cradled on the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees and eyes moist with tears.

I finally understand what Mother means when she says that her brain and her heart have traveled down two incompatible trails.

My brain knows. It understands. Mother and Anita are never coming back. There's nothing that I can do from this point forward to bring them back. Wasting time by crying over their deaths is pointless; it slows me down from my duties as a soldier. That is all. I know this.

But my heart doesn't know anything. The only thing it does is feel. So even though I logically know that neither Anita nor my mother's death is my fault, my heart still twinges with such a profound and unbearable guilt.

Logic versus emotion. And for whatever reason, emotion always seems to win.

I cannot let my emotions distract me from what is logical.

I deliberately push myself up from off of the floor and rub at my puffy and reddened eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. Then, I walk up to my dresser and open the top drawer so that I can find the belt for my pants. While rummaging past the socks and other various undergarments, I locate my belt at the bottom of it all. But beside my belt, I also locate my mother's journal that she gave to me. I cannot mistake that faded, dark charcoal cover that has bends at nearly every corner.

A couple of weeks ago, when the military police came to the underground city, I remember having tucked my journal into the waistband of my pants. I had wanted to read another journal entry from my mother later in the day, but then a blond woman covered in blood had stepped into the tavern, preventing me from doing so. Ever since then, I have had yet to read another entry. I open the front cover and am instantly met by the comforting smell of ink and old pages. Perhaps, now would be a good time to read a page or two.

Mother will never know that Anita has barely even touched the pages of her journal. For all I know, that journal is still slipped underneath one of the floorboard planks in the tavern.

Turning past a good section of the beginning of the book, I end up on a page about two-thirds of the way in. Something about reading the journal entries in order bothers me. It's like the moment I finish all of them, I'll feel as if my mother died with them. Again. But if I stick to reading them in an arbitrary order, I can force my brain into thinking that the entries in this journal will never end, even if I end up reading the same ones over and over. Emotion may win against logic, but that being said, the heart is easier to manipulate. I press my finger along the center in between the two pages that are laid out before me so that they are flattened against the top of my dresser. It reads:

_Do not let the world harden your soft heart. And perhaps a bit more specifically, do not let the people in this world destroy the delicacy of your being. You are too beautiful for such things._

_You may ask me how you are beautiful. You may wonder what makes a person beautiful in the first place. You may even tell me, "Mama, I'm only beautiful to you because I'm your daughter. What about other people? Like those who live above us. I bet they won't find me beautiful._

_Well, my dear Maika. Let me tell you._

_Beauty is not tangible, nor is it fixed. That is the simple truth. The answer to what it is exactly is quite complicated because the dichotomy of such a construct is so subjective as to cause discourse when by itself, beauty should be seen as something stimulating that brings forth happiness. And since it is all based on individual perception, I will tell you what I personally believe makes somebody beautiful._

_In my eyes, a beautiful person is pure. Not necessarily pure in the sense that they are innocent, but pure in the sense that they do not let the negativities of this world taint them._

_In a way, I guess you could say that I find it beautiful when somebody deviates from the societal expectations of what beauty is supposed to be. So in other words: to be beautiful is to not be beautiful in the eyes of society._

_Let me give you a few examples so you can better understand what I mean by this and not interpret it the wrong way. But first, I need to provide you with a little anecdote of a time in my life before you were born. Then, after I do this, I will tell you what I want from you._

_I have been to the world inside of the walls and above the underground city. I have seen it with my own eyes. The world is truly as enthralling as the rumors make it out to be. Do you remember how you were always bewildered at how much information I knew? This is why._

_The air is different. It is difficult to describe if you have never left the confines of the stiff and contaminated air of the underground city. But imagine being able to breathe without feeling thick particles of dust penetrating your throat or coughing every time you yawn._

_Life flourishes. The animals that I would describe to you for bedtime stories are real; deers with their large, beady eyes and soft, brown fur and the narrowed snouts and perfectly pointed ears of sly foxes do indeed exist. Rather than a single flower sticking out of a crack somewhere in the sidewalk half alive, there are a plethora of roses, tulips, and daisies that dance in unison along the sides of houses and pathways, vibrant reds and yellows and blues plunging into the eyes of those who are lucky enough to witness such an attraction._

_The sun beats with an inexplicable longing. It is not dull, and the light that it emanates is genuine. If I could describe it all in a single word..._

_Natural._

_I do not know what it is about being surrounded by all things nature that makes your everyday human feel smothered by authentic happiness. It could be the king of this region, your average church pastor, a citizen living in wall Maria, or an undergrounder like ourselves. All the same, we thrive off of the natural beauty the world has to offer us. Oftentimes, we become so consumed with our own desires and relationships with other individuals that we forget to take a deep breath and appreciate the lives that we were so graciously granted with. It is okay to be consumed at times, but you should always manage to bring yourself back. I would like to say that I know you will always manage because that is who you have always been. But at the same time, that is what I convinced myself of, and it did not end up being the truth._

_As much as I would not like to admit it, there are many secrets that I have held from you growing up. It is too late for me to share them with you honestly now, but I will still share with you what I know._

_I am selfish. At a point in my life, I became so indulged with the beauty of the world inside of the walls that I attempted to pass myself off as a regular citizen living in Sina. If you are unfamiliar, Sina is the innermost wall above us. There are three in total: Maria is the outermost wall, Rose is in the middle, and Sina is closest to the center. Sina is where the more wealthy individuals live, and they are also closer to the king, not to mention that they are more protected than anybody else if any type of incursion were to ever occur with the Titans._

_I did not fit in in the least, but I made ends meet. Quickly, I observed the style of clothing that citizens donned themselves in and took it upon myself to take clothes that hung from an innocent somebody's clothesline outside, but not before bathing in the river to rid myself of matted down hair and dirty skin. I do not know how well I played the part, but it was enough for me to not get caught walking around outside. Over time, I even learned to adopt the ambience of the people: the way they confidently strutted across town without having to look behind them to see if anybody was following them, as well as the cocky grins they wore when talking to people less superior than themselves._

_I did this because I wanted to learn more. Why was I not allowed to live in such a beautiful place? Why did I have to reside in the absence of warmth and comfort while others lived their most luxurious lives?_

_And it was all because those are the lives that they were born into._

_It did not appear to add up to me in terms of fairness; therefore, there had to be some way for me to live among these people as well. I did not know how to at the time, which is why I continued to immerse myself in their culture, so to say._

_I eventually became greedy. I was not getting the answers I wanted. The life that I was living was a fake one, and there was no satisfaction in living like so. So I ambled my way closer to the king. My ways in accomplishing this led me to a copious amount of regrets. I wish for you to never have to do such things in your lifetime. It involved too much manipulation and taking advantage of for my liking. But through my endeavors, I finally received the information that I needed to make my travels worth it._

_The military police are not who they are made out to be by the government. It is all a façade. The explanation can be quite complicated and lengthy to convey to you, seeing how you have not left the underground city. But if you thought that I was selfish, they are an entirely new level of it._

_They treat life as a hearty game of chess, a game where they can make large gambles because the negative consequences of the gamble will not be placed onto their shoulders. The pieces of this game are the Titans, and their opponents are the oblivious and brainwashed citizens of this region. Imagine playing a game of chess against somebody who only knows how to play checkers._

_When I lived in the walls, I worked at a popular restaurant that many of the higher-ups would regularly attend. Waitressing there was exhausting, but there were lots of good conversations that came up. Jackpot came one day when a couple of the king's most direct right-hand mans stopped by for a drink or two._

_Within the span of two hours, they had riled themselves up to the point of spewing any thought that came to their inebriated heads. Besides talk of all of the woman they found attractive and would have liked to engage in sexual interactions with, they spoke of occurrences that recently took place with the king._

_Apparently, there was a man. His father was quite intellectually curious, more curious than myself. Whereas I just wanted to know about the world outside of the underground city, this man wanted to know what was outside of the walls. I had never considered it. A world outside of the walls? Was it possible? Of course, in this moment, I had to keep my composure, but still. I am almost positive that the platter I was holding containing the men's fourth round of alcoholic beverages was shaking due to my nervous hands. Fortunately, the men were too drunk to tell._

_As the story goes on, I find out that this man had been killed. Killed by orders of the king. Why? Ah, because he was too curious. They had said, "He almost found out. If he had, it would've been over for us all. Good thing they were quick to get rid of him."_

_Found out what?_

_To this day, I do not know what that man almost found out. But I do know that he had every right to be curious. I lacked too much knowledge to pursue the mystery any further. In fact, I found it so mentally unbearable that I set back home to the underground city. Everything soon became forgotten in the untouched parts of my mind. I hold regrets for that, but at the same time, I do not._

_Anita came into my life, and so did you not too long after that. I could not have asked for anything more in my life. I feel a strong sense of guilt for having raised you in the underground city when I could have perfectly raised you up above._

_But perhaps that was not the best decision to make._

_At the time, I sensed that raising you away from the hustle and bustle of life would hold more benefits than consequences. You could view the world in its rawest form, and it would be up to me to shape your morals and standards. Truthfully, I believe I succeeded at this. But too much suffering was involved in accomplishing my wishful ordeal._

_Was it worth it, Maika? I am not sure. It is not up to me to make that decision._

_When you were younger, you used to hold a fond affection for winged creatures. What kind of creature it was had no importance; it could have been a unicorn, a butterfly, or even a mere fly. You were always captivated. So when you saw the military police clothed in uniforms with a unicorn on the left breast pocket, you could not help but surge with absolute delight. To you, they were only unicorn keepers, after all._

_That is what I mean when I say you are pure._

_I am sure that by now, you may have discovered that the military police are not unicorn keepers. Now that you know their true purpose, how will you treat them? How will you retain your purity?_

_The search for beauty has been endemic to humans since the very beginning. You may think that it is such a silly thing to discuss when there is so much more to worry about around us. I could be giving you advice on how to survive in the underground, like the best methods for obtaining food or the safest locations for pit stops when you are traveling by foot with your older sister. But I am not._

_This is because, first, I need you to recognize your worth. That is the first step in making any kind of journey in your life._

_You are beautiful because when everybody around you engages in physical battles, disputing over the last potato in the market, you give away your own share even if that is all that you own._

_You are beautiful because when you are taught how to fight with your fists and are told that it is every man for himself in this dog-eat-dog world, you instead join Pete in his market to help sell food rather than steal it._

_And even when others make fun of you for being so sensitive for crying over something as simple as a mouse's death, you don't try to toughen up to satisfy their standards._

_The underground city will not be your home some day. I can say I am so confident in that statement that I can call it fact._

_You see, the world may try to break you down and call you unworthy — they may try to snatch your dreams with the most malicious of intent and crush them into paltry pieces; they may try to perforate your delicate heart with words of hate and prejudice; they may try to seize the creativity that has creeped past the boundaries of what is deemed to be so boring and normal in this society and dispose of it in a manner where it is to disintegrate and never return to that incredible labyrinth brain of yours — but Maika._

_You are beautiful. In the same way that people love order and organization, they also like to disrupt it. In the same way that people like to pluck a vibrant yellow rose that sticks out amidst a field of red roses, they will want to destroy something, no matter if it is beautiful or not, if it does not seem to fit into what is already set in this world._

_You are that vibrant yellow rose._

_And I am sorry for that._

_Sometimes, I feel that you are too good for this world. Corruption runs through our veins, yet you are nothing but. Those coffee-brown eyes beguile even yourself._

_Deep down..._

_Past all of the dissemblance..._

_Your fragile heart must heart so much._

_I am sure that you are thinking to yourself right now about how all you want to do is see me one last time. You want the truth. You were always the kind of girl who wanted the proofs to things. Whenever I explained something to you, like a particular math problem, you would always ask me why it worked out that way. I expect no different from you right now._

_But alas, all I am able to give you at this time are these journal entries._

_Stay soft, little Maika. Because if you do not, then you will lose part of yourself in the process. And like I stated earlier..._

_You are too beautiful for such things._

_Mother._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Mama—"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I whisper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I just wanted—"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The tears begin to well again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"To see you—"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My vision blurs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"One last time."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And at last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They fall.


	10. Shitty Glasses

*If you haven't seen the first OVA for Shingeki No Kyojin, then the first section of this chapter may make zero sense to you. Go ahead and watch it if you haven't already! (:

"Ilse Langnar."

An uncomfortably long pause ensues after this name is said.

For reasons that still remain unknown to me, Hange Zoë relishes in the mysterious aura that she exudes whenever she lets a long pause linger at the end of her statements. It used to work exceedingly well on me, to the point where I would be leaning forward on the edge of my rickety chair, conjecturing what she could possibly tell me next.

But now, it is just a waste of time.

"Miss Hange," I begin, "you know that I already find the stories you tell me interesting. You don't need to give them dramatic effect to catch my attention."

Scrutinization is the only response that I receive.

And then, tears.

"Cocoon!" She cries out while getting up from the chair behind her desk and throwing her arms around me in a tight embrace.

All I can manage to let out is a strained "Nngh."

"You don't understand how much I appreciate you!" Warm teardrops smother my cheeks as she pulls me in even tighter. "Nobody has ever listened to one of my stories without dozing off or just walking away, let alone has been remotely interested!" She breaks away from me for a brief second, only to take her hands and cup my face with her rough palms. "Thank you, Maicoon."

Maicoon.

My heart skips a beat.

"M-Maicoon?" I stammer.

"Well, I figured Cocoon was a bit awkward. I had to jazz it up a bit by incorporating your name into it! What do you think?"

"I-I think it's fine."

"REALLY?"

"Yea—"

Before I am able to finish, she squishes my cheeks with utmost adoration and love and gives both of them a quick pinch.

To prevent her from doing anything else to my face, I awkwardly push her off of me and scoot my chair over to the side of her desk, picking up a battered down leather notebook with blood stains permanently saturated into the bottom half of it. "So who is this Ilse Langnar person you were telling me about?"

"Ilse Langnar," Hange explains as she takes the notebook out of my hands, "was a soldier who took part in the thirty-fourth expedition beyond the walls. She was found dead in a tree during one of our later expeditions. I was with Levi and his squad at the time of discovery. They were unusual circumstances to say the least."

"Why is that?"

"Well, a while back, I had tried convincing Erwin to let me use one of our expeditions as an opportunity to capture a Titan alive."

"Wait, you did what?"

"Don't worry too much. He denied my request. But when we went on one of our regular expeditions for the sole purpose of setting up supply bases, I saw a Titan and took it into my own hands to capture it without any help."

Now...I understand what people mean when they say that calling Hange crazy is an understatement.

"Don't get me wrong; I had asked squad Levi for help beforehand. Right before the expedition began, I turned to Levi, but he instantly replied with an irritated 'No' in that monotone voice of his when I hadn't even asked him anything yet. Then he claimed that capturing a Titan was a waste of effort and that he would have no part in it. So it was all up to me. It wasn't something I couldn't handle. I mean, technically, I wasn't given permission to perform the task in the first place, but what was Erwin going to do to stop me? Fire me? Yeah, right."

She goes on, "The Titan was a stout thing with a stubby face and blond hair. Nothing special, just your average Titan. I was luring it away from the site of chaos; that is, until it suddenly turned away and started sprinting towards the forest. At this point, I concluded it to be an abnormal. But still, there was something off about it. It was unlike any abnormal I had ever encountered before. He started banging his head on a tree, but Levi intervened and killed the poor thing before I could investigate any further."

"And how does this Titan relate to Miss Ilse?"

"Well, it doesn't directly. But it led us to the discovery of her body in the tree. Ilse took notes on everything that was going on around her during the expedition she was on." Hange taps her fingers along the front cover of the leather notebook for emphasis. "Even in her last moments of life, she was writing in this thing about how she was getting eaten alive. Here, wait. Read this line." She flips to a section farther back in the notebook and points to the last legible sentence for me to read.

I read as told, "'He has me between his teeth. I can feel his teeth upon my skull, like the pressure of a...'"

I look to Hange and am met with a solemn expression. "Pretty badass if you ask me, but unfortunate nonetheless. The other thing about Ilse is that her encounter with that Titan was peculiar in its own. The creature she ran into had apparently spoken to her, saying things like 'Ymir's people' and 'Welcome'. He even bowed down to her as a sign of respect. I almost don't believe it, but why would this soldier feel the need to lie if she went to the extent of writing in this notebook until her very last breath? But then again, no such thing has ever been recorded in human history. So why did this occur? And why to Ilse of all people?" Solemn eyes soon give way to thoughtful ones as she ponders the situation, and I begin to do the same.

I do not know nearly as much as Hange and the others when it comes to Titans, but I can sense the overwhelming importance that capturing one could have for the advancement of human knowledge and an understanding of the world around us. As far as I have been informed, these creatures are the things that are taking over, or just taking for that matter, the lives of innocent humans. And from the information I received during instructional hours, they do not eat us for the purpose of satisfying their hunger. We are not energy for them. We are merely eaten to be eaten.

As far as we know.

But the wheels in my head, they keep turning, slowly, and they do not fail to get stuck every time I feel even remotely close to a potential explanation as to why these inconvenient creatures exist or act the way they do. There has to be a reason. There is a purpose for everything in this world; that is why we have proofs for everything.

When we are told that sine squared plus cosine squared is equal to one, it is because of the Pythagorean theorem and not because somebody thought it sounded right and wanted everybody else around them to memorize it. Or when we learn of how we must put our thumb over our knuckles and not keep it squeezed underneath when throwing a punch, it is because that is the most efficient way to keep it from getting injured and not because it looks the prettiest. And begrudgingly, I may even argue that when we are told to wash the windows with a rag and a special spray designed specifically for cleaning windows instead of a mop with soap, it is because that is the proper way to get the smudges off of the glass and not because a certain captain wants to watch everybody around him suffer.

"Oi." The door opens. "Shitty Glasses. You didn't completely dust off the top section of the antique clock in the back hallway."

Or maybe that last statement still holds true.

"Good morning to you, too, Levi," Hange murmurs while pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose to look up at the irritated man. "I was just telling Maika here about Ilse Langnar and the notebook she left behind."

"And how Erwin made me chase after you because you decided to be reckless and attempt to capture a Titan on your own?"

"I recall giving you guys the option to help me."

"I don't think any soldier, let alone my squad, would be dense enough in the head to go and help somebody capture a Titan of all things."

"Okay...but riddle me this, Levi. We go on expeditions to set up supply bases, but at the end of the day, uncovering the true nature of the Titans has always been the primary goal."

"Where is the riddle?"

"Goodness, Levi! You just don't get it, do you?"

An encounter like this one still leads me to question whether or not these two are in a relationship.

"I could care less as to why an abnormal acts the way that it does. All I know is that it's my job to kill it."

"But don't you want to know why th—"

"No."

"Maicoon!"

I jump slightly at the realization that my name is being called. "Yes, Hange?" I question carefully.

"Tell Levi here about how important it is to go beyond just shamelessly killing Titans and actually getting to know more about their origins."

My eyes deliberately shift towards the captain's, and I am met with his own stare on me, but I find it intimidating and immediately look away. It is not intimidating because they look scary, but because they look empty, like nothing I say will change his mind on how he feels about the current subject being discussed. My original intentions are to refrain from speaking on Hange's behalf, but upon looking back at her face after avoiding Captain Levi's, I cannot help but feel bad for her when I see the longing look in her eyes that appear as if I have already betrayed her. At this, I decide to speak, but am unprepared in doing so, for I stumble on my words several times.

"I think...that...it is important...um...to..." I pause to collect some of my words before going on, "to look into why Titans are the way they are...given the chance...so that...we could possibly come up with a way to..." I search for the right word, "indefinitely...get rid of them."

I do not make eye contact with either of my superiors after saying this. They probably assume I am illiterate. I would not blame them for thinking such a way. I admit that I have a dilemma when it comes to being able to articulate my thoughts when put on the spot.

"See, Leeeevi? Maicoon knows exactly what I'm talking about. I bet that she'd even go on an expedition JUST to help me capture a Titan."

"I don't know about that last part..." I mumble these last words, audible enough for only myself to hear.

I subconsciously lift my head to look at the captain again because I want to see his reaction to Hange's words, but his eyes have yet to change from the position they were in before. I take these few seconds to consider the man before me; what is going through his mind right now as he looks at me? I am tempted to break the eye contact, but I cannot help but wonder if he remembers his past encounter with me, as the girl who he yanked off of a bookcase because she was cleaning a library window with a mop and some soap. If that is the case, then his unreadable expression is probably one of distaste. I must admit that a first impression involving a situation like that is not ideal for a superior-subordinate relationship. But in all likelihood, he may not even remember due to his job as a captain and having to encounter hundreds of soldiers making half-witted mistakes every day. I can only imagine how exhausting that would be.

After an uncomfortable amount of time, I finally hear him mutter something under his breath as he is the first to break our stare.

"Tch."

Captain Levi does not care to know the reasoning behind things. He does as he is told because that is simply the way it is to him. This makes me frustrated to think about.

 

It is almost a bit concerning how somebody could live their life so blandly, dare I even say selfishly.

Ilse's notebook is but an important milestone in human history. People should be more involved in the matter. If a Titan really did talk, really did show signs of respect, then that reveals a whole new layer to their mysteriousness. This is not to mention that the language they spoke in was comparable to that of our own. This opens so many new doors for us. It demonstrates that there is so much more that we do not know about these creatures, let alone the rest of the world.

I would like to know why the sky is a pale yet prominent blue, but how at other times it is a deep midnight purple, and how on some nights, it is scattered with the most minuscule of white dots known as stars, but on other nights is completely bare.

Or why the trees have been changing color as of recently; what has caused them to start off as so vividly green but transform into an ombré of fiery red and burning orange? They have even begun to fall off of the thin branches that they once desperately clung on to.

 

But the longer I think about it...

The more I begin to contemplate an aspect of myself.

Perhaps, it is I who is the selfish one.

Perhaps, I should not be questioning such things about the world. It has many mysteries to it, and maybe it does not like my prodding into its life.

Maybe I should ignore my dying questions and instead appreciate its exterior exquisiteness from afar.

After all, what we present to the world is what we want the world to see of us.

Maybe the world only wants to be treated the same.

ㅡ

 

As much as I would not like to admit it, when my time is allocated to hanging around the other undergrounders, I can sense that my heart is more at ease despite everything else that is going on around me. At first, their existences in my life were almost a little exasperating, seeing how coming to a consensus on how we felt about our new circumstances within the walls was near impossible. But I suppose that by now, it has donned on all of us that we are truly the only survivors left in a world that has been exposed to nothing remotely close to what we have experienced. From this point forward, we realize that we must come together as a pack to overcome the encumbrances in our lives, even if they are considered of utmost simplicity in comparison to those who have lived above for the entirety of their lives.

Luis.

Aldo.

Karlyn.

Eli.

This is the closest that I will have to family ever again. It may not be anywhere near close to perfect, but I must treasure them with all of my being because these scars between our shoulder blades are what will hold us together. To me, they are a resemblance to home; a home that others may see as pathetic and disgusting, but that I see as welcoming and which I cherish with open arms.

Mother is never wrong. The quietude that wraps around the notorious underground city and the incessant tapping of lightweight footsteps sauntering across a grainy terrain will always assuage my anxieties. Always.

Now, it has been almost two months since the military police infiltrated the underground city. When people express a significant situation that has occurred in their life feels as if it was only a dream, they are not lying. The hazy feeling is real, and at times I wake up with cold sweats and ragged breaths searching for both my mother and Anita to tell them that I had the most realistic and bizarre nightmare about them. But I am eventually brought back to my senses.

They are gone.

And it was not a dream.

It is such a precarious way of living, staggering back and forth between a not very idealistic reality and distressing nightmares that feel so much closer to the truth than real life. As I glance around the arena, watching my superiors prepare the other undergrounders for another round of three dimensional maneuver gear practice, I become cognizant to the four individuals I have unknowingly come to understand over the past two months. There may not be a lot that I know about them, but it's more than enough for me to view them as more than just a name and face. Our paths have inevitably intertwined, and while I know the steps that I took to make it here, I am curious about theirs.

My perspective on Luis has changed a great deal since my first encounter with him. He is the kind of man who portrays himself as assertive and confident, and he has no problem defying people in positions of power. I wouldn't say he's a troublemaker, but if he believes he's being treated unfairly, he will not cower in the presence of the authorities. However, behind the facade of strength, I am also a witness of his impotence.

My first hints of doubt rose the day we were locked in cells and were talked at by Commander Erwin Smith. While I was daunted by Luis's rowdiness at first, when I saw Captain Levi kick him across the face after being threatened with a dagger, I saw him weep as he cradled himself on the cold and dusty floor about how his daughter was dead. Furthermore, when Hange assigned me to cleaning the library windows, he broke down and told me that my eyes looked just like his daughter's. Charlotte, her name was. I remember her eyes were blue, but I still don't understand what Luis meant when he said those words. By chance, he meant the shape of our eyes were similar.

Either way, ever since, Luis has had yet to bring that situation up with me again. I've started to notice that he is more forgiving towards me nowadays, and I might even go as far to use the word protective. I don't mind it, as long as it's for the purpose of helping him alleviate his burdens. He is overall a compassionate person, and his strong build belies his goofy disposition. This is not to mention that lately, I see him act more like a father figure and less like an obstinate jock.

Aldo, on the other hand, may have the same body build as Luis, but his facial features make it much more convincing to view him as a laid back type of man. I've learned that he is an enjoyably competitive person, cares quite a lot about the style of his hair, and has a surprising affection for small kittens. His intentions are wholesome, and the gears in his head are definitely turning, but sometimes I think they malfunction and turn in the opposite direction of which they're supposed to be. Not to say that he's not a smart man, but every once in a while, I will see him do or say something that doesn't make sense given the context of the situation.

For instance, the time Captain Levi told him to launch himself at a tree and he literally threw himself at a tree trunk rather than landing safely on one of the thick branches by using his three dimensional maneuver gear. Thinking about it doesn't fail to make me laugh. He's trying, and I love him for that. Then again, I cannot be one to speak since I was the one who cleaned a window with a mophead.

Now, the thing about Karlyn is that although she appears to be an exceptionally stoic individual, she is not the cruel person I may have expected her to be at first glance. She is introverted and rarely ventures out of her room to make social interactions with anybody else, but she does as she is told without too much complaint. I think that her biggest downfall is most possibly her impatience.

Eli is also quite introverted but by different means. Whereas Karlyn is like that because she truly does not like associating herself with other people, Eli is shy and from what I can tell, very insecure about himself. He hesitates a lot when asked to make decisions, but I have faith that he will find a way to gain the confidence that he needs to possess agility as a soldier. I can vaguely make out his shadow about 50 meters to my left; he is currently adjusting the straps that are a part of his three dimensional maneuver gear.

I often wonder how the others view me, and if they do so to as large of an extent as I do to them. I have their best interests in heart, and I very well want them to succeed. Maybe I am thinking too much and they don't view me in any way at all.

Since we have been training extensively for a good couple of weeks now, our superiors decided that by this point, we can be left on our own to practice maneuvering while they watch from afar and make corrections as needed. Today, Dot Pixis and Hange are here to watch us perform, as well as Erwin, though he won't be making corrections. Erwin, I've noticed, is never really engaged completely with us but can always be found in sight. He sometimes watches, but he mostly ambles about the field and disappears for great amounts of time, only to come back and repeat the same process, ever so often stopping and making small discussion with whichever superiors are on duty with us that day.

I go over the procedure one more time in my head, even though I have already gone through it at least four times in the past ten minutes.

Steel wires reeled back into the operating cylinder?

Check.

Gas replenished in order to control fan output?

Check.

Straps tightened around my legs, waist, and chest?

I probably did it wrong...

Check.

"Soldiers!" I hear Dot Pixis as he shouts, "Your final test is one week from today! After that, you will completely dedicate your lives to the salvation of humanity by fighting against the Titans! DEDICATE YOUR HEARTS!"

"Yes, sir!" All five of us affirm in unison as we thrust our right fist upon our hearts, although I do not really think we truly understand the extent of our affirmation.

"Okay, go on then," he voices just loud enough for us to hear, his tone a striking juxtaposition to his previous, more exuberant one only seconds ago.

The key to having control of the three dimensional maneuver gear is to concentrate most of your attention on the center of the body, especially the hips. The amount of weight one puts on either side of their hips will dictate which direction they head while simultaneously distributing that weight to the bottom of their opposing foot. I remember this very vividly from the books we were assigned to read: diagrams and diagrams of figures wearing straps and tilting their body in different directions depending on how far they moved their hips. Intuitively, one can safely assume that the farther they move their hips, the more they will turn their entire body.

I know this information well because of the time I've spent studying these diagrams, but I find that implementing those rules and strategies in real life is much more difficult. As Pixis instructs us to move forward, I immediately press down on the handle that emits gas so that I can propel myself forward and into the air. I am granted with success, but not for long, solely because there are too many options to choose from at this point.

I should probably adjust my stance first so that my body is facing the direction of the branch I would like to land on, but multitasking has proven to be one of my weaknesses as of recently, so I suddenly find myself making a sharp turn with my body but completely letting the grip on the handles of my gear loosen in the process.

I am met face to face with a tree.

"A-A-Ahhh!"

I briskly thrust my arms out in front of me and make a strong sweeping motion to the side as I attempt to push off of the tree and instead tumble to the ground.

"You guys are not eating dinner today until I see you swing around these trees effortlessly!" Pixis bellows from somewhere behind me, and I can tell he is looking directly at me as he says these words.

Some days I am able to manage surprisingly well.

But other days, it takes hours to make even one decent stunt with my maneuver gear.

And by the looks of it...

Today is going to be one of those days.

One of those long, exhausting, and sleep-deprived days.


End file.
